He made the obvious retort. “You did not give me the chance.” “If only you had been up at dawn,” she laughed. “I was,” he replied. “I lay awake most of the night and I saw the sunrise from my bedroom window.” “Oh, dear!” she sighed. “You were looking the wrong way. You were adoring the East while I was going out to the West.” “All that is very pretty, but I’m dying of hunger,” said Watney-Holcombe, carrying her off to the dining room. The rest followed. At table, she sat between her captor and Dangerfield, so that Martin had no private speech with her. After dinner Watney-Holcombe and Dangerfield wandered off to the bar to play billiards. Martin declining an invitation to join them remained with the four ladies in the lounge. Lucilla had manœuvred herself into an unassailable position between the two married women. Martin and Maisie sat sketchily on the outskirts behind the coffee table. The band discoursed unexhilarating music. Talk languished. At last Maisie sprang to her feet and took Martin unceremoniously by the arm. “If I sit here much longer I shall sob. Come on out and do something.” Martin rose. “What can we do?” “Anything. We can gaze at the stars and you can swear that you love me. Or we can go and look at Cook’s steamboat.” “Will you come with us, Lucilla?” asked Martin. She shook her head and smiled. “I’m far too tired and lazy.” The girl, still holding his arm, swung him round. He had no choice but to obey. They walked along the quay as far as the northern end of the temple. By the time of their return Lucilla had gone to bed. She had become as elusive as a dream. He did not capture her till the next morning on the railway station platform, before their train started. By a chance of which he took swift advantage, she stood some paces apart from the little group of friends. He carried her further away. Moments were precious; he went at once to the root of the matter. “Lucilla, why are you avoiding me?” She opened wide eyes. “Avoiding you, my dear Martin?” “Yesterday you gave me no opportunity of speaking to you, and this morning it has been the same. And I’ve been in a fever of longing for a word with you.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “And now you have me, what is the word?” “I love you,” said Martin. “Hush,” she whispered, with an involuntary glance round at the red-jerseyed porters and the stray passengers. “This is scarcely the place for a declaration.” “The declaration was the night before last.” “Hush!” she said again, and laid her gloved hand on his arm. But he insisted. “You haven’t forgotten?” “Not yet. How could I? You must give me time.” “For what?” he asked. “To forget.” A horrible pain shot through him. “Do you want to forget all that has passed between us?” She raised her eyes, frankly, and laughed. “My dear boy, how can we go into such intimate matters among this rabble?” “Oh, my dear,” said Martin, “I am only asking a very simple question. Do you want to forget?”