She stopped. She seemed to think the other would say something, but that was not Ursula's way. Not for the first time, despite their friendship, Muriel found it irritating. "Look here, Ursula," she said, sitting up, "what's going to happen when he does begin to think about morality?" A look grew in Ursula's face. Her friend studied her intently. "I say, Ursie," she said, but in a changed softened tone, "it's playing with fire. Paul's not quite an ordinary man." Ursula made no direct reply. But the other understood her. "He's like a person who has glimpsed Paradise through the bars," she said. "Yes?" queried Muriel. "The gate's open," said Ursula simply, as the men came back. (2) But Paul was to fulfil Muriel's prediction sooner than she expected. The little _Gaika_ meandered in her slow and steady way down the Red Sea. At the close of a sweltering day, she drew into Port Sudan, and it was at Port Sudan that Paul Kestern began first to think about morality in the light of his opened eyes. It happened this way. The three were sitting over coffee in the saloon when the Major, who had finished earlier and had gone up on deck, re-entered and crossed over to them. "I say," he said, "the skipper says we shall be here all night and can go ashore if we like. You three care to come?" "By Jove, yes," cried Paul excitedly, jumping up. "It's a dull place, you know," said the Major, as if it were his duty to apologise for it. "A wharf, a railway station and sand, mostly. But it's rather interestin'. It's going to be the main port for Khartoum and Upper Egypt one day." "Is there nothing else to see but sand, Major?" queried Muriel, smiling. "Oh, there are some native stores, Miss Lister, and an hotel where we can get a drink. And it will be cool on shore in the night air." "That settles it," said the girl. "Coming, Ursie?" "Rather," said Ursula. "Hurrah," cried Paul. "Shall I get your scarves?" It was necessary to row across the harbour in a native boat. The men handed the girls in and sat beside them on the rough seats. A "boy" in a red fez, with his shirt hanging loose over his cotton drawers, who was to act as guide, directed operations. Two grinning negroes, their muscles knotted beneath their flimsy vests, drove the boat over the dark waters with long sweeps of oars. There was no moon, but the stars gave a soft light. And as the blunt prow cut the sea, a thousand molten ripples broke in little waves left and right, silver streamers melted into the darkness on either side, while the blades of the oars turned up liquid fire. Every little drop that fell from them was a diamond of light. As they looked over the side, gleaming flights of living silver gems of fish fled before their approach. Over the black waters ahead, shone a yellow flicker or two from lanterns on the quay.