“Take this to Miss Holbeach,” he ordered, penciling a note, and then buried himself in a French novel as one who is luckily far away from an unpleasant business. That little tiger-cat had fought hard. First, against the departure of “Mrs. Fuller,” to whom she had taken a fancy; and then against the installation of a governess. To “Mr. Egerton” himself she maintained a stony sulkiness; she did not like him, and took no pains to hide it. She had openly accused him of tricking her about Mrs. Fuller, and would not listen to his plausible tale of explanation. “I don’t know why you bother about me!” she had said, staring at him. “But I don’t seem able to get away from you. I don’t suppose you and the governess can be any worse than Mother Felicitas! Yes, I know you’ve been good to me, but----” She had stopped, afraid to go on. Only anger with this strange man who had carried her off from Mrs. Fuller had made her so outspoken, and as he looked at her, she dared not go on. She had turned and fairly run to her cabin, where she had stayed ever since, too seasick even to wonder at the strange turn her life had taken. Andria took the little note the steward handed her. He was an Italian, as were all the ship’s company, even to the stewardess. None of them could speak a word of English, and she knew no Italian. It had come to her oddly that one of the few questions Mr. Egerton had asked her was whether she knew Italian. But she resolutely assured herself that the two things had no connection. The note was just a line. “Would Miss Holbeach kindly go and see Mr. Egerton’s ward in her cabin.” The writer, to be truthful, had wanted the meeting over between the two. The die was cast now; neither could get away from the other, and if they had sense they would make friends. They would need to be friendly! And he grinned over his novel, wondering if the headstrong child would try to scratch the governess’ eyes out. If faces meant anything, this Holbeach woman had managed men in her day. Andria was half-way down the companionway as he thought it; and stood presently at a closed door. She knocked, and the stewardess came out. For a moment the governess was silent. She did not know the name of her pupil, had never heard it all this time; she did not know who to ask for. Then she laughed, for the Italian woman would not have understood her in any case. At the sudden lifting of the lowered blue eyes the maid moved aside. Andria, without waiting, went into the cabin. It was full of fresh air from an open port-hole, but in the berth, heedless of air or sun, lay a huddled figure with its face to the wall. Nothing could be seen of the girl but a pale averted cheek, and a wild mass of dusky hair neither black nor brown. Why did the years roll back at the sight of that hair, dark and lusterless, a color without a name? Andria was weary and unstrung, body and soul; she started at the uncanny, waveless hair.