Soundly the happy sleep. She did not hear the removal of Warrington's luggage at midnight, for it was stealthily done. Neither did she hear the fretful mutter of the bird as his master disturbed his slumbers. Nothing warned her that he intended to spend the night on board; that, having paid his bill early in the evening, her note might have lain in the key-box until the crack of doom, so far as he was likely to know of its existence. No angel of pity whispered to her, Awake! No dream-magic people tell about drew for her the picture of the man she loved, pacing up and down the cramped deck of the packet-boat, fighting a battle compared to which that of the afternoon was play. Elsa slept on, dreamless. When she awoke in the morning she ran to the mirror: all this fresh beauty she was going to give to him, without condition, without reservation, absolutely: as Aspasia might have rendered her charms to Pericles. She dressed quickly, singing lowly. Fate makes us the happiest when she is about to crush us. Usually she had her breakfast served in the room, but this morning she was determined to go downstairs. She was excited; she brimmed with exuberance; she wanted Romance to begin at once. "Good-morning," she greeted the consul-general, who was breakfasting alone. "Well, you're an early bird!" he replied. "Elsa, you are certainly beautiful." "Honestly?" with real eagerness. "Honestly. And how you have gone all these years without marrying a grand duke, is something I can't figure out." "Perhaps I have been waiting for the man. There was no real hurry." "Lucky chap, when you find him. By the way, our romantic Parrot & Co. have gone." "Gone?" Elsa stared at him. "Yes. Sailed for Saigon at dawn." "Saigon," she repeated. "And I am rather glad to see him go. I was afraid he might interest you too much. You'll deny it, but you'll never outgrow the fairy-story age." "Saigon." "Good heavens, Elsa, what is the matter?" "No, no! Don't touch me. I'm not the fainting kind. Did you know last night that he was going?" "Yes." "I shall never forgive you." "Why, Elsa . . ." "Never, never! You knew and did not tell me. Do you know who Paul Ellison is? He is the brother of the man at home. You knew he was stealing away and did not tell me." She could not have made the truth any plainer to him. He sat back in his chair, stunned, voiceless. "I am going to my room," she said. "Do not follow. Please act as if nothing had happened." He saw her walk bravely the length of the dining-room, out into the office. What a misfortune! Argument was out of the question. Elsa was not a child, to be reasoned with. She was a woman, and she had come to a woman's understanding of her heart. To place before her the true angles of the case, the heartless banishment from the world she knew, the regret which would be hers later, no matter how much she loved the man . . . He pushed back his chair, leaving his coffee untasted.