"Off wit' you...!" growled Heldstrom, and made a feint to dash at her. Hermione's light oars took the water, and her laugh came back, merry though muffled, as she slipped like a wraith into the fog. There was really no danger, as traffic was at a standstill and one could tell by the swell when opposite an entrance leading out to sea. Hermione was wearing a green flannel shirtwaist and her green plaid homespun skirt. Hunting-green and deep shades of crimson were Hermione's colours, just as the yellow tones belonged to Applebo. This morning her colour-scheme extended even to her tam, while the reflection of the drab-grey water in her violet eyes did its best to carry out the prevailing tone. The only alien note was the crimson ribbon, wound like a fillet about her black hair, which she wore twisted around her pretty head, as tightly as she could draw it. So dense was the fog that Hermione rowed slowly, fearful of bumping some of the many craft at anchor. From time to time she glanced at her compass, and occasionally she twisted about on the thwart and tried to pierce the opacity which appeared to hang like a soft, fleecy blanket directly before the bow of her skiff. Once she heard the chug-chug of a motor-boat, apparently approaching, but at her musical hail it sheered off and she heard voices talking loudly, against the din of the engine. "If I don't look out," thought Hermione, "I will run slap into the _Daffodil_. She is hung up squarely in my course to the landing." At the thought of this possibility it occurred to Hermione that, were she to run onto the yawl, she might leave her note in person, with perhaps a few supplementary words. This practical idea, while not particularly discreet, gave her a decided thrill. The heavy fog would prevent her call from being observed, and in any case she would conduct the interview from her skiff. Wherefore, when Hermione estimated that she must be very close aboard the yawl, she rested on her oars and tried to stare into the enveloping fog. There was not a breath of air, and the moisture was not chill, but warm and humid like steam. It was so thick as to be almost palpable, following any motion in swirls, and making one's breathing slightly laborious. The little harbour was full of yachts, and from all sides there came to the girl's ears the muffled and random sounds of the floating community; a snatch of song, the creak and whine of blocks, the splash of a packing-box most slovenly thrown overboard, a laugh, the chunk-a-chunk of oars, and the hail of a voice calling out to locate the vessel sought. Hermione felt herself to be in a mystic, sightless, and elusive world. She altered her course slightly, and took a dozen strokes, then rested again. She was looking and listening when suddenly, out of the fog and spoken almost in her ear, there came a resonant bass, which announced to any who might wish to hear:--