Coffee-coloured boys were diving off the boat-deck; vendors of lace shouted themselves hoarse from a flotilla of small craft that clung to the steamer like wasps to a honey-pot; Portuguese lightermen shrieked amiable execrations at one another; nobody could find the missing trunk, nobody could find Nanette; Nanette’s father said both would turn up--and the Bay of Funchal embraced it all with peaceful beauty. When the last shore-signal was sounded, I found Jack beside me. He was plainly in a panic. “Here, I say,” he exclaimed. “I thought Nanette was with you!” “And I thought she was with you!” “When did you see her last?” “When she went to look for her cabin.” “But she came back to fetch _you_!” “She didn’t arrive.” “Hurry up, please,” urged the officer on the gangway. “You’re last for the shore, sir.” Jack turned and ran in at the saloon entrance. I could see no one else I knew; so there was nothing for it but to tumble down the ladder. Reid’s launch had gone, and I took the boat in which some customs people, office men, and others were going ashore. They had turned steam on to the anchor and the ladder was swinging up as we drew away. I stood in the boat, searching the decks far above me, their rails lined with unfamiliar faces. From the white-capped, gold-laced officers on the bridge, I worked down, deck by deck. I caught a momentary glimpse of some folks I knew and waved automatically; but of Nanette’s party I could see nothing. Then sounded faintly a bell. Straggling boats seemed to be drawn astern of the liner by some powerful current. There was movement in the placid water; a swell rocked us. One could see the churning of the screw in clear blue sea. Renewed waving--and the _Arundel Castle_ was homeward bound for Southampton, with mails, mixed cargo, several potential weddings, and a broken heart or so. As I stepped from the boat on to the stone stairs and went up to the jetty, I paused, looking back. I was shortly to meet Edmond O’Shea, and the thought was pleasurable, but I would have given much to have been aboard the liner now headed for the open sea. I walked up the tree-lined street, sighing when I passed the shop where Nanette had found that wonderful shawl. The square, you may recall, is planted with those trees that flourish principally in South Africa and bear a light blue blossom. In the sunshine of early morning it seemed to me that all the streets were dim with an azure born of the flowers. Only two tables had been placed outside the Golden Gate. At one of them a girl was seated, her elbows on the table, her chin propped upon clenched hands. She stirred slightly, and I saw the sunlight gleaming in her hair.… I stood stock still. Then I began to run. Nanette looked up. She was pale. Her widely opened eyes were the colour of those flowers--misty blue. And they said, “I am afraid. I am ashamed. Don’t be angry with me.” “Nanette!” I whispered. She bit her lip and turned her head aside quickly; then: