"Of course she doesn't," he replied. "I can see just how it is; she was rather taken by the romantic idea of my rotting around in the wet, just to be near. Her verses show it. Or maybe she was just trying to get a rise out of me," he added, most unpoetically. "No," said Hermione, "she was a little touched. It will do her no harm, and might even do her some good. She has been a bit of a flirt, I'm afraid. You really haven't done anything so terrible...." Hermione found herself getting a little bored with the subject of Cécile. Said Applebo: "I would rather set fire to my tub, and sail her straight to sea ... as my forbears used to do, than give unhappiness to any living soul. That is the beginning and end of my religion ... at least of the negative side of it. To think that I should have given you this trouble! If you will accept her as a gift, I will present you with the _Daffodil_ here and now, and shoulder my kit, and clear out on foot. I have never been so sorry." Hermione was, for the instant, tempted to close with this extravagant offer, just to see what would happen. But a glance at Applebo's face told her. He was undeniably in earnest. Hermione began to feel sorry for him. "It is not as bad as that," said she. "Once you are gone, Cécile will soon forget about you. Next time you play at knight-errant, take my advice and identify your damsels. Now I must go. Good-bye." Applebo gave her a hopeless look. "Good-bye," he answered, in a dull voice, and threw off the turns of the painter. Hermione handled her oars. For some reason she felt a disinclination to pull off into the fog, leaving him there, unhappy, alone, forsaken. It seemed so dreary an end to their peculiar association. She thought of the many weeks that the little yawl had so bravely and blithely followed them through rain and gale and fog and calm. Her skiff drifted clear of the yawl's side. Hermione looked back at Applebo. He was sitting disconsolately on the sodden deck, back bent, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped in front of his knees. "Good-bye," repeated Hermione, more gently. "Good-bye," said Applebo, in a sepulchral tone, and without moving. Hermione thought that he might at least have got on his feet. She dipped her oars for a lusty stroke, then did not take it. It seemed quite impossible to leave him there in that state of dejection. If he had been sleepily and blinkingly inscrutable in his habitual way, Hermione would not have cared. But the feline pose had been ruthlessly torn away, leaving only the direct, childish nature underneath. There was plenty of the maternal in Hermione, and Applebo, at that moment, seemed to her a big, unhappy little boy. "I wonder if I can find my way back to the _Shark_..." she said, uncertainly. "I'll send the Finn with you if you will wait a few minutes. He has gone ashore to mail a poem to Cécile."