“It would be frightful if we missed the boat,” said Courtesy, who always said the thing that everybody else had already thought of saying, but rejected. For the _Caribbeania_ had begun raking the atmosphere with hoarse calls for its dispersed passengers. But at the wharf the launch was still fussily collecting the mails. There was a flame-coloured azalea leaning gorgeously out of the shade of the eaves of a customs house. It was Courtesy’s colour—so obviously hers that Courtesy herself unconsciously answered its call. “Ou—I say, that colour,” she said, and ceased, because she could not voice the echo that streamed from her heart to the azalea’s. It bent towards her like a torch blown by the wind. “It’s autumn,” said the gardener. “And that azalea is the only thing that knows it on the island.” “Good,” commented Mrs. Rust. “All this green greenhouse rubbish has no sense ...” she waved her hands to the palm trees that plaited their fingers over the sky in the background. “Autumn, I think ...” began the gardener, addressing the azalea, “autumn runs into the year, crying, ‘I’m on fire, I’m on fire ...’ and yet glories all the while; just as I might say, ‘This is passion, this is passion ...’ and so it is passion, and pain as well, but I love it....” “What a funny thing to say!” said Courtesy. “Do you say that sort of thing by mistake, you quaint boy, or do you know what you’re talking about?” “My lips say it by mistake,” said the gardener. “But my heart knows it, especially when I see—a thing like that. Otherwise, why should I have become a gardener?” He looked round for the suffragette to see if she had caught this spark out of his heart, and whether the same torch had set her alight. She was not there. “Come now, everybody,” said Courtesy. “The launch’ll be starting in a minute.” “But the suffragette’s not here,” said the gardener. There was an instant’s blank as heavy as lead. “Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Rust. “I can’t wait here all day. If she wants to moon around and miss the boat, let her. I am going.” She gave a hand each to two niggers, and sprang like a detachable earthquake into the launch. “I think I ought to wait,” said Courtesy. “She’s a little shaky after yesterday, and you’re such an irresponsible boy, gardener. She may have fainted, while we were looking the other way. Or she may be in that crowd buying souvenirs.” The gardener looked in the crowd for that well-known round hat with the faded flowers. But he knew that she would never buy a souvenir. “You jump in, gardener. I’ll wait,” said Courtesy. “Perhaps there’ll be another launch.” “Lars’ launch, missis, please,” said one of the mariners of the vessel in question. “Come at once, girl,” said Mrs. Rust’s harsh voice from the stern. Courtesy wavered.