And, meantime, jealousy of her and her doings was the very last thought of Vernon Blythe. His mind was entirely set upon Iris Harland, and he had to drive her image, and the wild conjectures which the sight of her had eliminated, by force away, in order to fit himself for his duty. Where was her husband? What was she doing on board the _Pandora_? Why had she embarked under a false name? And had she recognised him when he recognised her? All these questions kept rushing through his brain, and driving him half crazy because he could not solve them. He had tried to pump Dr Lennard, but had derived little satisfaction from the attempt. The doctor could not guess the reason for his anxiety, and would not have sympathised with it, probably, if he had. He set down the young man’s queries to curiosity, and answered them in a very common-place manner. Miss Douglas was better, and would be all right in a day or two. Did he not consider her an unusually pretty woman? Well, she had good features, certainly, but was too thin and pale for beauty, and she was very silent. The doctor didn’t know if she was stupid or sulky, but she did not appear very grateful for the attentions shown her; and the girl from the steerage who was nursing her, and seemed to be her friend, was twice as interesting a person, in his eyes. And so Vernon Blythe turned away with the secret of his burning heart untold, and waited feverishly for the moment when he should see Iris again and speak to her, although he could scarcely trust himself to think of it. He had borne the sting of his disappointment for five long years, and he believed that he was cured. He had never expected to meet Iris Hetherley (the only name by which he had known her) again. He had thought he should, in due time, marry Alice Leyton, and banish the last memories of his first love for ever from his heart. Yet here she was, and the very knowledge that she _was_ here had the power to make the young sailor’s blood course like molten lava through his veins, and set his head spinning like a top. He knew that, in a few days at latest, he must see her again; but each hour seemed to mark a day as it dragged its weary length along. Jack longed for a storm to arise,--for the vessel to be in danger,--for anything to occur that should take him out of himself, and make the time go faster. But the clerk of the weather would not listen to his prayer. The sky continued to be gloriously blue; the emerald waters sparkled in the radiance of the sun; the white cliffs of dear Albion, with the green fields beyond them, receded further and further away; the vessels of every nation, which the English Channel bears upon her bosom, became scattered and far between, and the _Pandora_ stood out to the open sea. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. COURTSHIP.