“I've been looking for you for hours. Thank God you're here. I was abominable to you this morning. Can you possibly forgive me? I'm so horribly lonely without you.” He was extraordinarily handsome as he stood before her, looking distressed, but with his eyes shining. “Of course I can,” she murmured, while a weight seemed to roll off her heart--and she blushed, a wonderful pink, up to the eyes. He sat beside her, still holding her hand. “I must say it. You are the most beautiful thing in the world. The--most--beautiful!” They looked at each other. “Oh!” he exclaimed with a long breath, jumping up again and half pulling her after him in a revulsion of relief, “come on deck and let's walk--and talk--or,” he laughed excitedly, “I don't know what I shall do next!” She obeyed, and they almost sped round the deck, he looking spiritually intoxicated, and she, calm by contrast, but with an inward glow as though behind her face a rose was on fire. The deck watched them and nodded its head. There was no doubt about it now, every one agreed. Bets began to circulate on the engagement. A fat salesman offered two to one it was declared before they picked up the Nantucket light. The pursy little passenger snapped an acceptance. “I'll take you. Here's a dollar says the lady is too particular.” The high-bosomed matron confided her fears for the happiness of the girl, “who has been real kind to Johnnie,” to the spinster who had admired Stefan the first day out. Gossip was universal, but through it all the two moved radiant and oblivious. VI McEwan had succeeded in his fell design of getting up a concert, and the event was to take place that night. Miss Elliston, who had promised to sing, went below a little earlier than usual to dress for dinner. Byrd had tried to dissuade her from taking part, but she was firm. “It's a frightful bother,” she said, “but I can't get out of it. I promised Mr. McEwan, you know.” “I won't say any further what I think of McEwan,” replied Stefan, laughing. “Instead, I'll heap coals of fire on him by not trying any longer to persuade you to turn him down.” As she left, Stefan waved her a gay “Grand succès!” but he was already prey to an agony of nervousness. Suppose she didn't make a success, or--worse still--suppose she _did_ make a success--by singing bad music! Suppose she lacked art in what she did! _She_ was perfection; he was terrified lest her singing should not be. His fastidious brain tortured him, for it told him he would love her less completely if she failed.