Poor Hermione! The poet was snatching her from one emotion to another in a manner most upsetting. Pique kept her from telling him then and there that she was not Cécile; that she was Hermione ... the object of three months' poetic effusion on his part, unrecognised in her true personality and unjustly vilified as a heartless coquette. Instinct told her, however, that the more he abused Cécile and deplored Hermione's heartless conduct, the worse he would feel when he learned the truth, and Hermione meant that his punishment should be thorough. A full-natured woman inherits from her primitive forbears a good deal of antagonism for the heart-compelling male, and so far Hermione had not struck back. She meant to do so effectively, when the time came. Applebo was awakening her to many new sensations, but she was very far from being conquered. So she tossed her pretty head and remarked:-- "Verse does not appeal to me except in an impersonal, purely mental sort of way. If that contents you, go ahead and write it by the running foot. Like Hermione, I am not very keen about long-distance devotion. If you transfer your attentions to me, there will be certain responsibilities attached. The first is that you call and meet my family in a purely conventional way." Mr. Applebo looked scared. "Oh ... in that case ... perhaps ... do you suppose that your sister Pauline..." "Paula," corrected Hermione, icily. "Paula ... quite so. I wonder if Paula would mind if ... if..." Hermione stopped short and stared. The colour flooded her face. She was suddenly the prey of a violent desire to do the man beside her a physical damage. She felt that she would like to snatch the gun from his hands and bang him over the head with the stock. Applebo looked at her and blinked. "Don't be angry," said he. "I would never have the nerve to go aboard the _Shark_. I'm an awful coward about most things. Besides, I hate the idea of being listed on your collection. I wonder what you would label me..." "'Fool's gold,'" snapped Hermione. "That would be unjust to yourself, if I were yours," answered the poet, sleepily. "All love is pure gold ... but often there is a lot of base metal alloyed. I love you, Cécile." He blinked. Hermione laughed. "Then go and smelt out the alloy," said she. "That consists principally of a deep and sincere affection for Mr. Applebo." She turned to look at him, her head critically aslant. The poet looked back. Hermione's heart began to misbehave again, and a delicious colour burned warmly through her clear, olive skin. Her deep, violet eyes looked almost purple in the crimson sunlight pervading the early morning air. Her chin was slightly raised, and her red lips invitingly apart as she waited for his reply. Without in the least suspecting it, Hermione looked like a girl who defies the kiss which she fully intends to get.