Her long lashes dropped on the rose-red cheeks. Her heart was fluttering wildly and she gripped the wet wire with all of her strength. She scarcely saw Applebo as he stepped quickly to her side and took her hand in his big one, crushing it even more tightly to the iron shroud. Then she looked up in frightened questioning, surprised to find him so close and marvelling at the breadth of the big chest. Her head came a little above its upper level, and Hermione was a big girl. Close as he stood to her, Hermione was obliged to give her face an upward tilt to look into his eyes, which she did, questioningly, yet with a swift, wild exultation. One downward step and Hermione would be in her skiff, prepared for flight and the security of the chiding bell. But she could not take it. Her feet were glued to the deck; her body as though lashed to the wire stay. Applebo began to speak, and she scarcely knew what he said, even while she thrilled at the deep, organ-noted voice. "Hermione ... Hermione ... you are still a little girl and perhaps I am doing wrong in telling you these things. I have loved you, sweetheart, from the moment I saw you that morning on the beach. I struggled against it, but it has been too strong. You are my Ideal quickened into life, and, though we scarcely know each other, all the nature that is in me cries out for you. When I say that I love you, I say it all. Now you must get into your skiff, dear, and go back. From this time on our attitude shall be the conventional one. I shall try to win you, but first there are other things to do. Go, Hermione." Just as when he had kissed her in the water, Hermione felt all of her personal volition leave her. She could only cling to the stay and stare at him dumbly with vague, dark violet eyes. So she looked up into his face, her own colourless, except for a crimson splash in the centre of either cheek, and her coral lips trembling. Her black hair was veiled in the grey, clinging mist. She suffered from no lack of strength, but her mind and body were filled with the pleasant lethargy which might come of a rare old wine, and which would quickly pass. Hermione felt no hurry for it to pass. So she clung to the stay and stared at the poet, and muffled in the fog came the notes of the bell, querulous and complaining, with a hint of impatience in its quickened beat. Applebo looked at her questioningly ... and Hermione's eyes shouted the exultant answer to this query. A golden flame leaped from the amber depths so close to her face, and, for some strange reason, Hermione felt the hot tears obscure her vision and the fog became a swirling chaos of grey. Her body swayed as she stood. She tried to say "Good-bye," but the quivering lips brought no sound.