She made a few strokes of her pencil on the blank page of her sketch book, then, noting how still her unconscious model sat, became absorbed in the portrait. Not a good face, but a strong one. The brows were as heavy as her pencil could etch, the graying hair at the temples disappeared beneath the tightly drawn edge of a stocking cap and the long chin dipped into a wide pierrot ruff. The costume was that of a harlequin and had probably been rented from the ship’s barber, who carried a stock of fancy costumes for these parties. Cynthia, absorbed in her sketch, worked rapidly. The claw-like hand that had reached up to pull away the ruff ... the long white scar just showing at the side of the chin, not an old scar, she thought, for it still showed pink at the edges. Her model sat quietly, unaware of the attention he was receiving. No, that chin wasn’t right. Cynthia flipped over another page and made a more detailed study of the lower part of the face. This was a type she could use, sometime, in an illustration. She wondered vaguely what the man did when he wasn’t on ship board. Then the music stopped. Perhaps it was that his attention had wandered from the dancers or perhaps it was a sudden sense of being watched, but the man turned quickly in his seat and sent such a glare of enmity at the astonished Cynthia that she started and dropped her book. When she emerged from groping beneath the table her model had disappeared. He must have moved very quickly for he was already slipping through the door. Cynthia shook herself. That man certainly didn’t like artists! But this was a good waltz, why not enjoy it. It was after midnight when she tiptoed into the cabin. Miss Mitchall was already asleep. Her tall green hat and the long cape were neatly disposed on the couch beneath the window. She was still asleep when Cynthia dressed silently next morning, when she left for breakfast. The dining saloon was almost deserted. Nearly everyone seemed to be sleeping late or breakfasting in bed. “My last day on shipboard,” thought Cynthia a little mournfully. What to do to stretch it out to its full length? She decided to spend the morning on deck, sketching; the afternoon in the lounge with a book, or perhaps a game of deck tennis with Stasia. But in the middle of the morning a thunder shower drove everyone indoors and Cynthia found Stasia and her father over coffee and toast in the lounge. “This is Dad’s second breakfast and my first,” announced Stasia. “Have some coffee, Cynthia?” Cynthia declined the coffee. “I was up with the larks, or at least the seagulls,” she said. “Do you mind if I sketch you while you eat? I’ve wanted to get you all week.” But what she really wanted was Mr. Carruthers with his rugged beak of a nose, his thin, slightly curling mouth. In fact she became so intent on her sketch that she forgot she was supposed to be drawing Stasia till the tall girl laughed: “Dad, she’s found you more beautiful than I am!”