Applebo plunged into his companionway, leaving Hermione completely mystified. A moment later he emerged, holding a piece of note-paper which Hermione was quick to recognise as the _Shark's_. To her amazement and disgust, she saw that this was covered by Cécile's stylish penmanship. "I will read it through," said Applebo, "and then point out to you what I mean." In his deep, sonorous voice he proceeded to read as follows:-- TO A PILOT-FISH _The billows flee from the shriek of the wind And the scud from the lash of the gale, But the "Shark" swims away and naught behind But one poor little tossing sail. Tell me, surges, ere you go, Should a Pilot-fish be treated so?_ _The sky-line darkens as night draws near, From the sea strikes the East Wind's chill, For the sturdy "Shark" there is naught to fear, But how for the "Daffodil"? Tell me, moon, from your heights above, Sails the "Daffodil" to the Port of Love?_ _Is it for Love that my viking roves, Or doth he despise the shore? Shall we meet in the Port of Missing Loves, Or shall we meet no more? Tell me, breezes, ere you part, Can true love warm a fish's heart?_ "Do you mean to tell me," cried Hermione, "that Cécile actually wrote and sent you that slush?" "Eh ... what...?" Applebo appeared startled out of his habitual repose. His yellow eyes opened very wide. "What do you mean? Cécile?" "Oh!" cried Hermione. "You make me sick! Both of you! If possible you make me the sicker ... because you began the whole silly business! In the first place, if you must pose as an enamoured swain, and bombard innocent folk with sickening slop, why don't you take the trouble to recognise your inamorata when you see her? I am not Cécile. I never was Cécile. Cécile is my sister ... the one who went with papa to thank you for helping me. I am Hermione!" Applebo stared and his lean jaw dropped. He sank into a sort of heap upon the dripping deck. Mouth and eyes were generously open, and he stared at the angry beauty in the boat with an expression of such utter imbecility that Hermione lost her temper. She wished that Cécile could have seen him. "You look like a fool!" she snapped. Applebo gulped and shut his mouth. "I have the perfect right!" he answered, sepulchrally. "But why didn't you tell me?" Hermione's chin went into the air. "I suppose that when you told me in your naïve way that you were in love with Hermione, I should have put my finger in my mouth, dropped my shy head, plucked bashfully at the hem of my high-water bathing skirt, and murmured, 'I am it!'" Applebo groaned as one in pain. "Do you mind if I say what I think of myself?" he asked. "Not in the least. I might even help."