Wood glanced at Hermione with the slightest suspicion of a wink. She coloured and laughed. Hermione and Cécile had but little in common, and aside from a certain amount of sisterly affection, were rather indifferent to each other. Cécile disapproved Hermione's frank, impetuous manner, and Hermione detested her sister's cold-blooded coquetries. Both of the girls adored their sister Paula. "Applebo's is a somewhat peculiar devotion," Wood observed, "but that is to be expected, considering Applebo. He asks only to worship from afar. It appears that his sentiment is useful as a source of inspiration; 'motive force,' as he expressed it. He even went so far as to say that it would profit him even more if some other person were to win the heart of his inamorata, as hopeless passion was always productive of the best poetic results." "Huh..." grunted Bell. "I told you he was a balm!" "So he intends never to meet me ... us ...?" Cécile corrected herself, but not in time to save the laugh. "A modest young person, my daughter Cécile," said Bell, dryly. "Of course it's not within the scope of human possibility that Paula or Hermione should have found favour in the eyes of this omelette-head. Cut another notch in your gunstock, my dear..." And he continued in this ironic strain until Hermione and Wood took pity on Cécile and changed the conversation by sheer weight of voices. Toward the middle of the afternoon Paula Bell returned aboard. There was nothing of the sea about this girl, who was wholly of the warm and comforting earth. Paula's type was such as one sees in the sculptured figures of French public buildings, lending themselves to emblematic decoration, and representing Ceres, with overflowing cornucopia, Justitia with her scales, or perhaps an opulent creature to depict La Vendange, the vintage, or Return of the Grape. In face and figure Paula might have posed for one of these splendid, heroic sculptures. Already, at twenty-two, her form was gracefully mature, and her face, pure of feature, had that pretty alluringness of expression with which the French sculptors know so well how to sweeten and vitalise the classic Greek. We Anglo-Saxons, on the contrary, seeking to copy directly from the ancients, are too apt to get as a result the well-known, frozen-faced females which suggest rather George Washington, a suffragette, or an idealised William Jennings Bryan than the desired Mother of the Earth. "What do you think...?" cried Paula. "I met the Pilot-fish face to face." "You did!" cried Hermione. "What did he do?" "Nothing. It was in the post-office. He stood with his eyes fixed on infinity while the clerk sorted his mail. He is very striking in appearance and as graceful as a panther. People turn to look at him." "How was he dressed?" asked Cécile.