_Thus, ere Love reached me with his tiny dart, Clamoured I vainly. Many a lover's moan And sigh proclaimed a love I ne'er had known, Vaunted a passion alien to my heart._ _My soul has met with thine. Though I did wrong, These lips are stilled. No slightest sigh is heard, And all my poesy is prisoned in a word:-- "I love thee, Sweet." Herein lies all my song. The Pilot-fish._ Cécile read the verses twice through, then flung herself back amongst the pillows with a burning face. The solution was not long in coming. Apparently, the poet had previously sent verses, from time to time, to Hermione. Cécile had seen the envelopes. It was very wrong of Hermione to have received them and said nothing to her about it. Cécile would reprove her for that later on ... not just at present. It was probable, she thought, that Applebo had seen Hermione at some time, found her attractive, and being himself of a sentimental and poetic nature, had fancied himself in love with her. Then, in their meeting of that morning he had, no doubt, been disillusioned, found Hermione a mere child and a bit of a hoyden. Later on, seeing herself, Cécile, he had been completely vanquished. Certain parts of the verses appeared to bear this out. The theme of the poem, as a whole, was that formerly, when he really had felt nothing, he had been doing a lot of singing. Hence the verses which Hermione had from time to time received. But now that he had really fallen in love, he found himself deprived of expression. Cécile put away the verses, rang for her maid, and proceeded to dress. At the dinner that night everybody who knew her agreed that she had never been so radiantly lovely. "Lucky dog!" said Poole to Huntington Wood. "You'll win her before this wild-goose chase is over!" Wood smiled, and his eyes followed Paula as she crossed the room to speak to an acquaintance. CHAPTER IX After the departure of his guests, Mr. Applebo returned to his yellow cabin and remained, for some minutes, sitting upon the extreme edge of his bunk, his eyes fixed upon infinity. Like many men who spend much of their time alone, Mr. Applebo had acquired the habit of audible self-communing, this custom rendered the more spontaneous due to his practice of reciting his poetic efforts for the sake of euphony and metre. Audible self-communing was also a favourite employment of the Finn, so that any one approaching the yawl at any time of the day or night might have been surprised to hear two monologues proceeding with the tireless monotony of a pair of phonographs.