In the middle of my story it suddenly struck me with an abrupt and painful sense of desolation that on the following evening she would not be there. I went on talking, but somehow or other all the interest and colour had died out of my yarn, and I finished as lamely as George making one of his official excuses for the Government. For a moment or two she looked at me without speaking. Then she sat up. "What's the matter, Stephen?" she asked, pushing her hair back from her eyes. "Nothing just now," I said. "I was wondering what Rufus and I were going to do to-morrow." "You must do that mysterious work you were talking about. You haven't begun it yet; and it's all my fault." "But I can't work when I feel lonely," I objected. "Two days ago," she said, "you told me a desert island was the only place you could write in." "Yes," I said; "but I was younger then, and not so experienced." She laughed--that low, sweet laugh of hers that always reminded me of deep water. Then she leaned forward again, and a sudden flicker of the fire fit up her eyes and hair, and showed me the soft curve of her lips. She looked so utterly adorable that for a moment I as nearly as possible forgot the rules. It was only with a big effort that I crushed back a sudden wild impulse to take her in my arms. As it was I jumped up, just a little abruptly. "Astarte," I said, "it's time you went to bed. All good sailors turn in early the night before a voyage." She looked up at me for a second with a grave, almost a wistful expression. Then she held out her hand. "You're right, Stephen," she said. "Good-night." I bent down, and very lightly I kissed the tips of her fingers. * * * * * * * Midday the next morning found me, with Rufus by my side, standing in sombre isolation on the extremest promontory of the island. Three miles away the _Penguin_, now merely a white speck on the water was just rounding the big bluff of Strathmore Head. "She's gone, my dog," I said, "she's gone!" Rufus looked out to sea and whined dismally. "Yes," I said; "that's exactly how I feel. But it won't bring her back." He threw up his head and howled. "That's no use, either!" I added bitterly. "If it was I should do it myself." Then, with a last glance seawards, I turned round, and, followed by a very depressed puppy, I made my way slowly across the saltings to where the _Scandal_ was at anchor. I forget who first launched the theory that work was a successful anodyne for baffled love. Anyway, I can bear personal witness that he was mistaken. No one has ever worked much harder than I did during my remaining three days on the island, and no one has ever been more persistently haunted by the vision of an absent face. I wrote the whole of my article for the _Fortnightly_--thirteen solid, chunky pages all about Kashmir--and at the end of it I found that I was even fonder of Astarte than when she had left the island.