There was a wistful note in her appeal, and, looking down at little Nanette, slowly a memory came: I had worn that gray tie on the day we had met O’Shea. I suppressed a sigh, “admirin’ how the world was made.” At eighteen, there are many things that even Miss 1927 doesn’t know. There was one that Nanette did not even suspect. There was another that I knew of; but this not my own secret. I was unselfish enough to wish I could tell her. “Very well, Nanette,” I replied, and lingered, looking down. “Are you going to swim this morning--for the last time?” “No. I have to go into the town.” “I don’t think I shall swim, then,” said Nanette. “May I come with you? Or is it a stag party?” Before I could reply: “Please remember your packing!” came a voice from below. Nanette’s mother stepped out onto the balcony and looked up at me in mock severity. Seeing her, beside her daughter, I reflected that the lucky man who won Nanette would acquire a bride who would always be beautiful. “Consider well the mother of thy beloved,” says an Arab poet. “In her behold thy beloved-to-be.” “Pop is doing his to-night,” Nanette protested. I visualized “Pop,” sole occupant of the family table in the dining room, dealing with a solid English breakfast, regardless of flies, temperature, and the indifferent quality of the bacon. “He has none to do, dear,” was the reply. “I do it for him.” “But, darling,” Nanette wheedled, bobbed head pressed against her mother’s shoulder, “there are hours and hours. Please let me off.” In the end she had her way, and we set out together along the dusty road. There would be disappointment this morning down at the bathing pool, I mused, peering aside at the piquant face shaded by a Japanese parasol. Nanette wore no hat, and I said to myself that if all the women who were bobbed had such shapely heads as Nanette’s, the world would be very beautiful. “Did you tell Jack you were going?” I asked. “No.” Nanette aroused herself from a reverie. “I forgot.” Poor Jack! And he would have sold his Blue for a smile from Nanette. The road to the town is very picturesque; and I might have counted George Decies a happy man had I not known that my charming companion loved to be with me only because I formed a link with her memories of someone else. Down the steep slope we walked, talking but little. An old roadmaker doffed his hat, smiled, and bade us good-morning. I sensed his kindly, appreciative glance following us. Funchal is famous for honeymoons. Past the gardens of the Casino and the flower-cloaked balconies of villas we went. I forced myself to think of my real mission. Common sense whispered that I should have driven down in a fast car. Sense of duty demanded that I should conceal the nature of my business from Nanette. “Shall you be long with the consul?” she asked. “I don’t expect to be,” I replied. “Then I will go along and have a simply perfect shawl I saw sent up to Mum,” said Nanette. “She won’t like it. But _I_ love it.”