Micky was pushed aside, and a couple of brawny seamen hauled the gangway on to the harbour. The gap of green water was widening slowly between the pier and the ship's side. Micky felt as if he were being exiled. Supposing she was not on the boat? He turned away and searched the crowded deck. The boat was full, and most of the people were women, but there was nobody who looked in the very least like Esther. She would be wearing the fur coat, he was sure--the coat he had given her! One or two people stared at him curiously. Once he came across Marie and her father on the leeward side of the boat. For decency's sake he had to stop. He made an inane remark on the weather and said he thought they were going to have a smooth crossing. Marie's brown eyes lifted to his. "You haven't met your friend?" she said quietly. Micky had a horrible conviction that she had not believed that he had any one to meet. He coloured in confusion as he answered-- "No--no. I'm sorry to say I haven't." She moved away leaving him with her father. The old man slipped a hand through Micky's arm. "Don't notice her, my boy; women are queer cattle--and I expect she's a little sore with you still." Micky wished it was possible to jump overboard. He found the old man's friendliness more insufferable than the look of reproach in Marie's eyes. As soon as he could he got away; he went down the companion-way and wandered round despondently. If Esther were on the boat she must have seen him and was deliberately keeping out of his way; he glanced in at the open door of the ladies' cabin as he passed. Several pessimistic souls who had already made up their minds to be ill, although the sea was like a mill-pond, had arranged themselves on the couches, with pillows under their heads; as Micky passed the cabin some one slammed the door smartly in his face. He went upon deck again and stood looking out to sea, with the wind stinging his face. It was getting dark rapidly; the lights of Dover twinkled through the greyness. Micky stood and watched till they could no longer be seen. He was chilled to the bone in spite of his warm coat; he turned the collar up round his throat and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. His fingers came in contact with the telegrams he had written in the train and forgotten to send. He swore under his breath. He kept out of the Delands' way when they reached Calais; he was first off the boat; he stood in the darkness trembling with excitement. There were all sorts of people pouring past him--men, women, and children. They all seemed happy and eager--a couple of Frenchmen standing near him chattered incessantly; Micky moistened his dry lips; there was a little nerve throbbing in his temple. Supposing he never saw her again! His hands clenched deep in his pockets ... supposing he never met the half-shy glance of her grey eyes--supposing he never heard her voice any more--or her laugh....