The next morning they passed Gibraltar soon after noon and headed for the Straits. At one o’clock Grant, who had spent the morning on the bridge, descended and walked down the deck. The chair in Gertrude’s accustomed place was empty. Brookes came out from the little smoke room with a single cocktail upon a tray.

“Where is Madam?” Grant enquired.

“Her Highness sent word that she would remain in her rooms to-day,” Brookes answered. “She begged that you would not disturb yourself on her account. She is simply a little tired.”

Grant frowned. He was most unexpectedly disappointed.

“Who is looking after the Princess?” he asked.

“I thought of doing so myself, if you have no objection, sir,” the man replied. “If you can manage with Jackson in the saloon, sir, it would perhaps be better.”

Grant nodded and went to his solitary luncheon. It was certainly, to some extent, a relief to be spared the haunting question of her eyes, to be made to feel all the time that, in some way or another, he was unintentionally avenging himself for the great slight of his life. Yet the solitude oppressed him. He ate without his usual appetite and even forgot his whisky and soda until the meal was over. He spent the afternoon engaged upon some work. At six o’clock he sent her a little note:

My dear Gertrude, he wrote,

I am so sorry you are not well. Is there anything I can do? Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner time?

In a few minutes Brookes brought back an answer.

Dear Grant,

There is nothing the matter with me. If it is any pleasure to you, I will come to dinner.

In a sense he hated the satisfaction with which he read the few lines. He turned around and faced himself a little savagely as he realised the feeling. The wind, which had been freshening during the last few days, was now blowing almost a gale. He put on his oilskins, lit a pipe, and walked out on deck. Even he, a yachtsman from his boyhood, had to crawl along for some time, clutching at any support he could find, until he reached the railing. Linking his arm through it, he stood and looked down at the boiling cauldron of waters below. Grey clouds were rolling up all around them. White-capped waves rose one after another, as though to defy their progress. The first officer passed him on the way to the bridge.

“Heavy sea, sir, for the time of year,” he observed,

“Is it getting worse, do you think?”

The man shook his head.

“It will blow itself out by dusk, sir,” he prophesied. “It’s a pleasure to see the way she rides through it.”

Grant found his way presently on to the bridge and walked for an hour in the roar of the wind and with the spray dashing continually in his face. Towards the hour of twilight there was a faint yellow line of light westward,—the only parting in the ever-gathering clouds.

“What do you think of it. Captain?” Grant asked.

“I’m thinking she’s the grandest little weather boat I’ve ever been on,” the latter replied. “All the same, it’s as well we’re on the southern route. We might have lost a boat or two. It will be down before morning, sir.”

Grant, curiously excited by the storm, changed for dinner a little before his usual time and made his way to the tiny smoke room. Brookes was already there, mixing cocktails.

“We will have a bottle of the special Clicquot to-night,” Grant ordered.

“Her Highness is dining, I believe, sir,” the man told him. “She said that she felt much better.”

Grant nodded, furious with himself that the indifference with which he replied was only assumed. He stood in the swaying room, holding on to one of the fixed chairs, bitterly resenting the sudden access of weakness which made him half long for, half dread her coming. Then he heard an unexpected sound,—the sound of her laughter, silvery, almost gay, as she came cautiously in, holding on to the wall. He stepped forward to meet her and led her to a chair. She looked at him wonderingly.

“Whatever have you been doing. Grant?” she exclaimed. “What a colour you have! You look as though something marvellous had happened.”

He shook his head.

“Just the storm,” he answered. “It was wonderful this afternoon.”

She nodded.

“I watched it from my porthole. In a way it excited me too. I was glad you sent your little message. Grant.”

She looked at him and the fingers which held his glass shook. She was wearing a simpler dress even than the night before,—a gown of black and silver brocade, whose only fastening was a girdle around her waist. It was cut low at the throat and she was wearing no jewellery, not even her pearls, to conceal the white softness of her neck. When he looked at her arms he saw that the sleeves were wide and loose.

“I am afraid that I was a little churlish last night,” he confessed, “and I didn’t mean to be, Gertrude.”

She caught at his fingers and held them for a moment.

“You are a dear, Grant,” she said, “but you do carry the executioner’s knife with you. To-night let us forget. I think I too have the storm in my heart. Let us forget the pain that comes when one remembers—when one passes on to solitude. You shall be my agreeable companion at dinnertime, and we will imagine that afterwards—well, what shall I say?—Otto is waiting for me in the lounge, you are on your way up to solve bridge problems at Lord Yeovil’s. But, we dine together.”

“If we dine at all,” Grant laughed, as the spray suddenly beat against the porthole. “This may put the fires out.”

“The bugle has gone anyhow,” she answered.

She was forced to cling to him along the passage. He had, even, once to support her. In the saloon everything had been made fast as far as possible, and deep fiddles were upon the table. The service of the meal, however, was unimpaired. Gertrude had found her appetite. So also had Grant. Conversation became suddenly a pleasure. It was as though the whole awkwardness, the whole tragic significance of their presence alone in the middle of the Atlantic had been swept away. She began to talk of Berlin, the efforts of the aristocracy to reinstate themselves, the silent influence of Lutrecht, Blunn and his wonderful love of life and dark background of unscrupulous ambition.

Grant, who was usually so full of reserves, told her what only one or two people in the world knew,—of his visit to Berlin as a traveller in steel, told her how he had stayed at a commercial hotel and dodged the fashionable quarters of the city, of how he had seen her once in the distance, driving. He even told her what she wore. She laughed into his face, with glad eyes.

“Yo............