“If I come,” she said, “it will be strong, not weak.” “Of course,” said the gardener. “Come on.” “It would be much easier to stay here.” “Oh, much,” panted the gardener. “Come on, come on.” So they ran, and on the way back they discovered how interminable the main street was, and how relentless is the sun of the West Atlantic. But when they reached the wharf, the launch was still clinging to the liner. “A guinea,” shouted the suffragette, who was experiencing the joys of very big-game hunting, “to the boatman who can get us up to the _Caribbeania_ before she starts.” She spoke in the voice of one accustomed to speaking in Trafalgar Square, and everybody understood her. A boat practically cut the feet from under them before she had finished speaking, and in it they splashed furiously out into the bay. “We shall catch it,” said the gardener, rowing energetically with one finger. “I’m a man of luck.” He was posing as one who would not utter a reproach. It was a convenient pose for all concerned. When they were about half-way, the suffragette said, “You know—it takes a little courage to admit hysteria.” “Of course it does, my dear,” said the gardener. “I wouldn’t have done it for the world.” Presently they were within bare shouting distance of the whale which had threatened to make Jonahs of them. A liner’s farewells are like those of a great many women I know, very elastic indeed. “You’ll do it,” shouted a voice from the high boat-deck. They did it. The Captain shook his finger at them from the bridge. “What happened?” asked Courtesy, meeting them on the main deck with a shawl to put round the suffragette. Some women seem to think that a shawl, or a hot bath, or a little drop of sal-volatile are equal to any emergency under the sun. “She didn’t know that was the last launch,” said the gardener, still posing as the magnanimous defender. “Yes, I did,” said the suffragette. “She was buying a souvenir round the corner,” persisted the gardener. “No, I wasn’t,” contradicted the lady. “I made up my mind not to come back to the _Caribbeania_.” “Ou, I say, how killing of you!” said Courtesy. “But he changed your mind?” “No. I overcame it.” “You quaint mite,” said Courtesy. The gardener’s pose momentarily ended here, for he was stricken with whirling of the head and sickness, after running in the sun. Although there was a touch of martyrdom about it, it was not a dignified ending to a really effective pose. He had to seek the comfort of Hilda in his cabin. Hilda had three flowers now, and they had cost her her independence, for she leaned upon a stick. But among her round green leaves she held up bravely her trinity of little gold suns.