Mark, Lissa, Polly, Sam and Caleb saw the trio set sail—as gay a farewell as one could imagine, with Lissa in a costume indicating that she had achieved social distinction and Polly with her funny epigrams and humorous antics, clever mask for her aching heart. Mark had sent Thurley a basket of roses which were to be delivered that evening, but which the steward stupidly hauled to light before Lissa’s eyes. “You better play safe,” Caleb murmured to Mark who was hanging over Thurley’s chair and refusing to notice Lissa’s efforts to get him away. “One doesn’t see a girl like Thurley off for her first trip across every day,” Mark answered. “Anyway, she’ll not be bothering with any of us in a year’s time; she’s destined to have a coronet on her handkerchief.” Sam Sparling had made Thurley count inkstains on his fingers, which he had obtained by writing letters of introduction to his friends scattered in France and England. Collin, who was in a fearful stew about having left behind his pet kit of brushes, fumed up and down the deck with Caleb reminding him that there were shops in Paris. Polly stood towards the rear of the group as they were given their shore warning. “Good-by, Polly—a world of luck!” Collin said easily. “Good-by, Collin—the same to you!” “Good-by,” Ernestine called out. “When you see me next, I’ll be known as Thurley’s chaperone—I’m submerging my personality!” “Good-by—America,” a sudden childish fear took possession of Thurley. A chorus of jeers answered her. “Really? Well, nothing like being impersonal first to last.... I say, Thurley, if you’re not more polite, we’ll go buy a locket and each chop off a lock of hair and stick inside. How would you like that for an albatross?” “Good-by, Americans,” she corrected, “it’s just—just—” “Sing it,” suggested Polly. Without ado, Thurley began “Auld Lang Syne,” causing waving handkerchiefs to be pressed to eyes and every one aboard to ask who the tall girl was with the glorious voice and if she was to sing at ship’s concert? Ernestine shrugged her shoulders as the song ended and Thurley, abashed at the furore, sank down in her steamer chair. Harsh tug whistles took up the burden of noise. “You’ll learn not to waste your songs,” was all Ernestine said. CHAPTER XX Thurley’s début was the night of November sixteenth, nor was it _Marguerite_ as she fondly hoped but as _Rosina_ in “The Barber of Seville,” the rôle which she had so often sung during her lessons with Hobart and in which she felt scant interest. Returning with breathless memories of the beloved Old World as skilfully shown her by her famous couriers, Thurley had waited with equal breathlessness to find Bliss Hobart who had not sent her so much as a penny post card during her weeks abroad.