At just about this stage in his meditations he was somewhat rudely brought back to earth--or, more properly, to deck. A voice shrieked excitedly: "_Why_, Mr. Staff!" To be precise, it miscalled him "Stahf": a shrill, penetrating, overcultivated, American voice making an attempt only semi-successful to cope with the broad vowels of modern English enunciation. Staff looked up, recognised its owner, and said beneath his breath: "O Lord!"--his soul crawling with recognition. But nothing of this was discernible in the alacrity with which he jumped up and bent over a bony but bedizened hand. "Mrs. Ilkington!" he said. "R'ally," said the lady, "the world _is_ ve-ry small, isn't it?" She was a lean, angular, inordinately vivacious body whose years, which were many more than forty, were making a brave struggle to masquerade as thirty. She was notorious for her execrable taste in gowns and jewelry, but her social position was impregnable, and her avowed mission in life was to bring together Society (meaning the caste of money) with the Arts (meaning those humble souls content to sell their dreams for the wherewithal to sustain life). Her passion for bromidioms always stupefied Staff--left him dazed and witless. In the present instance he could think of nothing by way of response happier than that hoary banality: "This is indeed a surprise." "Flatterer!" said Mrs. Ilkington archly. "_I'm_ not surprised," she pursued. "I might have known _you'd_ be aboard this vessel." "You must be a prophetess of sorts, then," he said, smiling. "I didn't know I was going to sail, myself, till late yesterday afternoon." "Deceiver," commented the lady calmly. "Why can't you men _ever_ be candid?" Surprise merged into some annoyance. "What do you mean?" he asked bluntly. "Oh, but two can play at that game," she assured him spiritedly. "If you won't be open with me, why should I tell all I know?" "I'm sure I don't know what you're driving at, Mrs. Ilkington." "Would it improve your understanding"--she threatened him gaily with a gem-encrusted forefinger--"if I were to tell you I met a certain person in Paris last week, who talked to me about you?" "It would not," said he stiffly. "Who--?" "Oh, well, if you _won't_ be frank!" Mrs. Ilkington's manner implied that he was a bold, bad butterfly, but that she had his entomological number, none the less. "Tell me," she changed the subject abruptly, "how goes the _great_ play?" "Three acts are written," he said in weariness of spirit, "the fourth--" "But I thought you weren't to return to America until it was _quite_ finished?" "Who told you that, please?" "Never mind, sir! How about the fourth act?" "I mean to write it _en voyage_," said he, perplexed. From whom could this woman possibly have learned so much that was intimate to himself? "You have it all mapped out, then?" she persisted. "Oh, yes; it only needs to be put on paper."