Precisely what he had in mind I found myself at a loss to imagine, and before I had time to ask: “Please, are you at home?” cried a voice from below. I crossed to my balcony and looked down. Nanette stood on the terrace. The sunshine made a glory of her tousled head as she laughed up at me. A stout German seated near by in a cane lounge-chair found his attention engrossed by the unashamed beauty of a pair of slim legs that had suddenly interfered with his view of the bay. They were delicately sunburned to the knees, which--the brevity of modern frocks and a habit of going stockingless had forced me to learn--were dimpled. One suspects that Cleopatra had dimpled knees. “Yes, Nanette,” said I. “Where have you been?” “Bathing. You should know that, Mr. Decies. You are sadly neglecting your grass orphan!” She looked very lovely. The German tourist raised envious eyes to my balcony, their envy magnified by heavily rimmed goggles. “Please come down and join the party.” “Very well, Nanette,” I answered. But when I turned back and reëntered my room, O’Shea and the portfolio were gone. And I knew that little Nanette would be disappointed. Presently, side by side, we walked down a shady path strewn with fallen hibiscus blossom. Nanette was very silent. An American training ship manned by naval cadets lay in the bay, and, at a bend in the path, Nanette paused. She stared out at the little vessel--“a painted ship upon a painted sea.” “One of the boys from the cadet ship is with our party,” she said. “He’s nice. I have promised to dance with him to-night. He’s from Boston,” she added. “Has he got late shore leave then?” I asked. “No,” Nanette answered in a dreamy voice, moving on. “I don’t think so. He just wants to stop. They are going to the Azores from here. Where is--or are--the Azores?” “Quite a long way,” I answered vaguely; for Nanette really didn’t want to know. There was small envy in my heart regarding the cadet from Boston. He was being used as a diversion by a distractingly pretty girl whose heart was not in the game. However, it is the mission of youth to learn, and the poor fellow would “learn about women from her.” I met him in due course. He was being lionized by a group seated around a table beneath a gay umbrella that cast pleasing shadows. Nanette unblushingly monopolized him, and his joy was ghastly to behold. He would cheerfully have deserted his ship for her. The sister of the British consul, who was acting as a sort of official chaperone to our grass orphan, kept throwing appealing looks in my direction. But I was helpless, and I knew it. A hundred times Nanette’s glance sought the steps. And if only O’Shea had joined us, the eyes of the infatuated young man from Boston might have been opened before he doomed himself to cells for a siren’s smile. But O’Shea did not join us.