In due course our yachting gowns came home from the dressmaker’s, --accompanied by terrifying bills, of course,--and a few days later we sailed out of Villefranche harbor on board the Vispera. The party was a well-chosen one, consisting mostly of youngish people, several of whom we knew quite well, and ere the second day was over we had all settled down to the usual routine of life on board a yacht. There was no sensation of being cramped up, but, on the contrary, the decks were broad and spacious, and the cabins perfect nests of luxury. The vessel had been built on the Clyde according to its owner’s designs, and it certainly was a miniature Atlantic liner. Our plans had been slightly altered, for as the majority of the guests had never been to Algiers it was resolved to make a run over there and then coast along Algeria and Tunis and so on to Alexandria. As we steamed away from Villefranche the receding panorama of the Littoral, with its olive-covered slopes and great, purple, snow-capped Alps, spread out before us, presenting a perfectly enchanting picture. We all stood grouped on deck watching it slowly sink below the horizon. From the first moment that we went on board all was gay, all luxurious, for were we not guests of a man who, although absurdly economical himself, was always lavish when he entertained? Everyone was loud in praise of the magnificent appointments of the vessel, and dinner, at which its owner presided, was a merry function. I was placed next Lord Eldersfield, a pleasant, middle-aged, gray-eyed man, who had recently left the army on succeeding to the title. He was, I found, quite an entertaining companion, full of droll stories and clever witticisms; indeed, he shone at once as the conversationalist of the table. “Have I been in Algiers before?” he repeated, in answer to a question from me. “Oh, yes. It’s a place where one half the people don’t know the other half.” I smiled and wondered. Yet his brief description was, I afterwards discovered, very true. The Arabs and the Europeans live apart and are like oil and water, they never mix. The days passed gayly, and were it not for constant thoughts of that man who had loved me and forgotten I should have enjoyed myself.