Huntington Wood was giving a dinner party ashore that night, and Cécile, according to her custom when dining out, spent the late hours of the afternoon in repose. Her room aboard the _Shark_ was as big and luxuriously furnished as though it had belonged to a modern country-house, and she slept in a brass bed securely bolted to the deck. Adjoining was a boudoir and bath. In a flowered kimono, her bright hair unconfined, Cécile was taking her beauty-rest and turning in her mind the events of the day. Piqued as she had been at Applebo's behaviour, she was by this time angry ... and a little startled to find how insistently his personality occupied her thoughts. She would have resented this more had it not been that this retrospect was by no means disagreeable. The startling feature of this obsession was the vividness with which she could recall every detail. Cécile had only to close her eyes to see again the big-framed, loosely-held figure, the sleepy, leonine face with its mane of wavy hair, sun-bleached on top of the head to the colour of old oakum, but holding rich, coppery tints in its depths. Facial features were shockingly vivid; the high, wide cheekbones, the cheeks themselves cut out to a degree which gave the mouth an appearance of being slightly pushed out, the upper lip slightly raised in the middle. Most distinct was the set of the eyes; the leonine "bumps" with the bushy eyebrows, the eyes themselves of a clear, deep amber and fringed about with lashes that looked black, but were not. She thought, with a gust of irritation, of the poet's blinking, indifferent expression and of the sudden gracious change in the cat-like face when he smiled. The smile humanised him, it was so kind. And it reassured one, in revealing teeth that were straight and white and even, and not feline. The recollection to most stir Cécile's pulse was that of the deep, resonant purring voice, which seemed to have left its echoes in her ears, as the voice of the sea leaves its murmur in a conch-shell. "If it weren't for that catty, mocking pose," thought Cécile, "how attractive he would be!" She pictured him as open and frank and sincere ... looking into her eyes with no veil across his own ... Cécile's heart beat furiously. She wondered if she were going to make a fool of herself and fall in love with the only man who had ever treated her with disrespect. Perhaps the factor which made Applebo's memory so intrusive was his enigmatical position. From thinking of him Cécile would ponder, until her head ached, upon what could be his real motive. She was now convinced that his attendance was not aimless. She was also sure that if it were due to a sentimental emotion toward herself she would very soon know of it, now that they had met. There had certainly been some deep meaning, some understanding in those, regards which he had given her.