Everyone who has made a voyage knows that the sea breeds intimacies. By the time the white houses of Algiers rose on their hill out of the bosom of the waves Mademoiselle Verbèna and Mr. Greyne were—shall we say like sister and brother? She had told him all about her childhood in dear Paris, the death of her father the count, murmuring the name of Louis XVI., the poverty of her mother the countess, her own resolve to put aside all aristocratic prejudices and earn her own living. He, in return, had related his Eton days, his momentary bias towards the militia, his marriage—as an innocent youth—with Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. Coming to later times, he was led to confide to the tender-hearted Levantine the fact that he hoped to increase his stock of knowledge while in Africa. Without alluding to “Catherine,” he hinted that the cure of influenza was not his only reason for foreign travel. “I wish to learn something of men and—and women,” he murmured in the shell-like ear presented to him. “Of their passions, their desires, their—their follies.” “Ah!” cried Mademoiselle Verbèna. “Would that I could assist monsieur! But I am only an ignorant little creature, and know nothing of the world! And I shall be ever at the bedside of mamma.” “You will give me your address? You will let me inquire for the countess?” “Willingly; but I do not know where I shall be. There will be a message at the wharf. To what hotel goes monsieur?” “The Grand Hotel.” “I will write there when I have seen mamma. And meanwhile⸺” They were coming into harbour. The heights of Mustapha were visible, the woods of the Bois de Boulogne, the towers of the Hotel Splendid. “Meanwhile, may I beg monsieur not to⸺” She hesitated. “Not to what?” asked Mr. Greyne most softly. “Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?” She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbèna drooped her head. “The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I—that monsieur—a man young, handsome, fascinating—the same ship—I have no chaperon—_enfin_⸺” She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. Greyne to tears. “Not a word,” he said. “You are right. The world is evil, and, as you say, I am a—not a word!” He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne the world might attribute—Goodness gracious! What might not the militia think, for instance? He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog. They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbèna, but she bade him go. She whispered that she thought it “better” that they should not seem to—_enfin_! “I will write to-morrow,” she murmured. “_Au revoir!_” On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.