"Isn't that dodge pretty well worked out with the newspapers? It seems to me that it has come to that, of late; or else the prime donne have taken to guarding their valuables with greater care." "Oh, that makes no difference. With another woman it might, but I"--she shrugged--"I'm Alison Landis, if you please. The papers won't neglect _me_. Besides, Max can do much as he likes with them." "Have you--?" "Of course--by wireless, first thing this morning." "But you promised--" "Don't be tiresome, Staff. I bought this necklace on Max's suggestion, as an advertisement--I meant to wear it in _A Single Woman_; that alone would help make our play a go. Since I can't get my advertising and have my necklace, too, why, in goodness' name, mayn't I get what I can out of it?" "Oh, well ..." Staff abandoned argument and resting his forearms on the rail, stared sombrely out over the darkling waters for a moment or two. This was at night, during an intermission in a dance on deck which had been arranged by special permission of the weather--the latter holding very calm and warm. Between halves Staff had succeeded in disentangling Alison from a circle of admirers and had marched her up to the boat-deck, where there was less light--aside from that furnished by an obliging moon--and more solitude. Under any other circumstances Staff would have been enchanted with the situation. They were quite alone, if not unobserved; and there was magic in the night, mystery and romance in the moonlight, the inky shadows, the sense of swift movement through space illimitable. Alison stood with back to the rail so near him that his elbow almost touched the artificial orchid that adorned her corsage. He was acutely sensitive of her presence, of the faint persistent odour of her individual perfume, of the beauty and grace of her strong, free-limbed body in its impeccable Paquin gown, of the sheen of her immaculate arms and shoulders and the rich warmth of her face with its alluring, shadowed eyes that seemed to mock him with light, fascinating malice, of the magnetism of her intense, ineluctable vitality diffused as naturally as sunlight. But--the thought rankled--Arkroyd had won three dances to his two; and through all that day Alison had seemed determined to avoid him, to keep herself surrounded by an obsequious crowd, impenetrable to her lover.... On the deck below the band began to play again: signalling the end of the intermission. Alison hummed lightly a bit of the melody, her silken slipper tapping the deck. "Do I get another dance?" he asked suddenly. She broke off her humming. "So sorry," she said; "my card is quite full and running over." "May I see it?" She surrendered it without hesitation. He frowned, endeavouring to decipher the scrawl by the inadequate moonlight. "You wanted to know--?" she enquired, with a laugh back of her tone. "How many has Arkroyd, this half?" he demanded bluntly. "Two, I think," she answered coolly. "Why?"