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  He gave a courtly little bow.

  “If you will honour me,” he said.

  He walked beside her down the wide deck, her little feet taking half a dozen dancing steps to his one stride.

  “So you are going to Ceylon,” he said.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I heard you say so—at dinner time.”

  Rocky sighed. “I always seem to talk too loudly,” she apologised. “I try not to, but somehow my voice seems to make itself heard above everyone else’s.”

  “It is a very sweet voice,” Sir John said.

  “And nobody could have said that but you,” she thought. “At least, not to make it sound quite the same.”

  “Are you going to Ceylon, too?” she asked.

  “I may stay there a few days and wait for the next ship,” he told her. “But my plans are uncertain.”

  “I hope you will stay,” she said impulsively, and then, realising that it was rather an unusual thing to have said, she hurriedly asked another question. “Do you live in England?”

  “I have just come from England.” It was rather an evasive answer, but he added in explanation: “I spend the greater part of my life travelling about.”

  “How lovely!”

  He laughed at that.

  “You would soon grow tired of it. Once the novelty has worn off, travelling can be like any other form of boredom.”

  “I can’t believe that the novelty ever wears off,” Rocky said a little resentfully. They had reached the middle of the ship now, where the widest part of the promenade deck was cleared for dancing and hung about with flags.

  Rocky’s spirits soared again. “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” she breathed. She threw off her wrap. “I can’t dance in this.”

  Sir John took it from her and laid it across a chair.

  “Won’t you be cold?” he asked.

  “Cold?” she smiled up at him. “Cold, when I’m so happy!”

  She was a little surprised at the sudden wistfulness of his eyes.

  “Do you know what is the greatest thing in the world?” he asked.

  She shook her head, only half attending, her little feet tapping impatiently to be off.

  “To be young,” he said.

  “Oh! …”

  He put an arm around her.

  “I suppose you are a wonderful dancer,” she said.

  “You shall tell me presently,” he answered.

  They were the first couple to take the floor, and the eyes of some of the passengers, who were sitting around wrapped in furs, followed them with interest.

  Constance, standing beside her brother, said sharply:

  “There! … You see! … I knew she was making eyes at him during dinner.”

  Clive frowned.

  “At that old fool!” he said contemptuously.

  “Not so old— or such a fool,” his sister answered, with unusual insight. …

  “I knew you’d be a wonderful dancer,” Rocky said when the music stopped. Her eyes were alight with happiness.

  Clive Durham approached them; he looked a little sulky.

  “May I have the next dance?” he asked.

  “Oh, thank you,” Rocky said.

  Sir John bowed and moved away, and when he was beyond hearing Clive asked: “How does the old man dance?”

  Rocky looked indignant. “He isn’t an old man.”

  “Not old? Old enough to be your grandfather, anyway,” he said.

  “You don’t know my age,” she protested.

  He looked down at her.

  “Eighteen?” he hazarded.

  She frowned. “I shall not tell you,” she said with dignity.

  He only laughed. “Oh, all right—no need to be offended.” Rocky glanced over her shoulder at Sir John’s tall figure. Old indeed! She felt resentful for his sake. Sir John was talking now to Gina Savoire, who was wrapped in so many furs that she looked rather like a polar explorer, and she was bringing the full battery of her heavily darkened eyes to bear upon him.

  Rocky’s even brows bent in a quick frown, but at once she was smiling again and enjoying the music. Clive was not such a good dancer as Sir John—he was inclined to be boisterous and to consider it fun to narrowly escape a collision with the other couples who had now appeared on the scene.

  When it was over he kept Rocky’s hand in his and led her along the deck.

  “It’s made all the difference,” he said abruptly. “I mean—you coming on board.”

  “Oh—has it?”

  He nodded. “Um—it’s been a dull voyage so far—all the old fogies sit planted in the lounge, reading and knitting, and they usually go to bed about nine.”

  Rocky laughed. “That’s the bad weather; it will be different when we get in the sunshine.”

  “Why did you come from Toulon?”

  “Why?” Her clear eyes wavered. “Well—you see, I came from Paris.”

  “Oh! … Been to school there, I suppose,” he teased her.

  “You may suppose what you like,” she answered calmly. She stopped to look down again at the sea. A line of foam ran away into the darkness from the ship’s side and was lost.

  “How awful to fall overboard,” Rocky said.

  “Yes.” He leaned his arms on the rail beside her. “You wouldn’t stand much chance on a dark night like this.”

  She turned round, her back to the sea.

  “In two days we get to Naples,” she said.

  “Yes. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, but I know it’s beautiful—people say, ‘See Naples and die,’ don’t they?”

  “It used to be ‘Smell. Naples and die,’” he said. “But that’s all altered.”

  There was a little silence till Rocky said intensely:

  “It must be wonderful to do something great—to be someone great, I mean. I should love to do something that would set the Thames on fire.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t quite know.”

  “Become a glamorous film star?” he suggested.

  “No, I didn’t mean that sort of thing—” And suddenly she found herself thinking of Sir John Stannard, seeing him against a background of tradition—a long line of ancestors, a stately castle, unbounded wealth, a family who mixed with kings and perhaps dined off gold plate. And yet—he had told her that he spent most of his life travelling round the world.

  “Who is Sir John Stannard?” she asked suddenly.

  “I haven’t the least idea,” young Durham answered. “I expect he’s in Debrett if you care to look him up. Baronets are six a penny, anyway.”

  “Not the kind of baronet he is,” she declared. “I think he’s frightfully handsome and distinguished looking. I expect he’s very rich, too——”

  “He’s got a state cabin, if that’s any sign of wealth.”

  “Miss Savoire has one as well,” Rocky said. “She’s on my deck, and we’ve got the same steward. He says she’s rather exacting.”

  He stooped to light a cigarette for her, and for a moment their two young faces were very close together.

  When the match had flickered out, Durham said a little defiantly: “You’re very pretty, you know.”

  Rocky laughed. “Don’t be silly!” she said calmly. “You can’t be pretty with a snub nose like mine. Now, I call your sister an attractive-looking girl—she’s so different from most of us.”

  He laughed grimly.

  “She tries hard enough to be,” he said.

  “What a nasty thing to say!” she objected.

  “She’s my sister,” he reminded her. There was a little silence before Rocky said, with apparent irrelevance: “I suppose Mademoiselle Savoire has been acting in London.”

  “She says she has.” There was the faintest sarcasm in his voice. “If it’s true, I should think she’s been in a cabaret at one of the hotels—and now she’s going to Australia touring for six months.”

  Rocky looked up at him.
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  “Are you always so horrid about people?” she demanded.

  “Horrid? I only said what everyone else is saying about her.”

  “I expect they’re saying things about you—and me, too,” she answered wisely.

  “We all talk about each other,” he admitted. “When you’ve been on board a few days you’ll do the same. Constance says that she’s heard all sorts of stories about Sir John.”

  “I suppose everyone’s jealous of him,” Rocky said calmly. “He’s the most distinguished-looking man I’ve seen so far.”

  Young Durham threw his half-smoked cigarette overboard.

  “You haven’t had a good look at me yet,” he said comically.

  She went on unheedingly: “And the next best is Mr. Wheeler,” she said thoughtfully. “The one your sister doesn’t like. There’s something about him—— She stopped, to say after a moment: “I hope he’ll talk to me—I expect he will.”

  “Oh, he’ll talk to you all right,” Durham said rather offendedly. “You’re the best-looking girl on board—but you know that without being told.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Rocky said again. She shivered a little. “Shall we go back? It’s rather cold.”

  As they reached the dance floor again she caught sight of Richard Wheeler leaning over a chair back, looking on.

  “Doesn’t he dance?” she asked.

  “I dare say he would if you asked him,” Clive answered.

  Rocky turned her eyes in Wheeler’s direction and found that he was looking at her, but at once he turned away, and she felt a little disappointed.

  Didn’t he want to be friendly? “I’ll make him,” she decided cheerily.

  Later that night as she was going to bed she met him in the passage of D deck. There was not much room to pass, so he stood back against the wall as she drew near.

  Rocky glanced at him and smiled.

  “Good night,” she said in her most friendly voice.

  A faint look of surprise crossed his face, though he answered in differently. “Oh—good night,” and a moment later he had gone.

  Rocky undressed quickly and got into bed. She had not yet made a thorough inspection of her cabin, so now she kept the light on and looked around her interestedly.

  It was all very neat and compact and comfortable.

  A narrow wardrobe for her frocks—a fixed chest of drawers with a mirror above it, a wicker chair and some small hanging shelves. She was very intrigued to discover that the eiderdown quilt was kept in its place on the bed by silk loops fastened to hooks in the wall—in case the ship rolled, she decided.

  The ship was steady enough now; except for the smallest vibration it was difficult to believe that one was really at sea.

  Would she be seasick, she wondered? But she was not really apprehensive, and, besides, the Second Officer had assured her that they were going into fine weather, and, of course, he would know.

  It was all wonderful, anyway; she turned out the lights and cuddled down amongst the pillows.

  “I believe I’m tired,” she thought, but sleep was difficult to capture, and she lay awake for a long time, the wheel of excited thought turning ceaselessly in her brain.

  It seemed strange, too, that the wheel should turn backwards and not forwards, although she tried hard to control it.

  And when at last she fell asleep it was of Yesterday that she dreamed and not of Tomorrow.

  Chapter

  2

  Before another twenty-four hours had passed it seemed to Rocky that she had made friends with almost everyone in her immediate vicinity except with Richard Wheeler.

  She had said good morning to him when they came face to face before breakfast on the promenade deck, and she had been quite prepared for him to stop and talk to her, but he had just passed on, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, his face very preoccupied.

  It was a sunny morning, not very warm, but the sea was calm enough even for Edith Palmer, who had cheered up sufficiently to consent to try her hand at a game of deck tennis with Rocky and the two Durhams.

  Constance played in gloves.

  “I don’t want my finger-nails broken,” she explained.

  “She need not worry,” Clive told Rocky, “because she won’t catch a thing—you see.” Which proved to be true, and as soon as the first set was over she declared that she had had enough.

  Rocky looked round anxiously.

  “Can’t we get someone else? … Oh, there’s Mr. Wheeler. I’ll ask him.”

  She sped across the deck to where Wheeler was standing watching a passing vessel.

  “Will you play tennis?” she demanded in the voice of one who never dreams of refusal.

  He lowered his binoculars and glanced down at her, and there was the barest silence before he asked dryly:

  “Must I?”

  “Please,” she said. “We want a fourth, and there’s nobody else about.”

  “Very well.” He returned his glasses to the case which hung from his shoulder and followed her.

  “Can you play?” she demanded. “I mean are you any good at it?”

  “I have played before,” he admitted.

  “Played before!” Rocky said afterwards in breathless indignation. “I should think he must be a professional the way he made rings round us.” She set her lips determinedly. “But before I leave this ship I mean to beat him,” she added.

  “You won’t,” Durham teased her. “He’s supposed to be a magnificent tennis player, so you won’t have an earthly. Why do you bother about the fellow, he’s such a surly brute.”

  “Bother about him?” Rocky repeated. “Of course I bother about him—for his own sake, not for mine. I think it’s dreadful to see anyone so aloof and unfriendly. I think unsociable people must be frightfully miserable. He never spoke once during the game except to tell me I threw above my shoulder and that it was against the rules.”

  “So it is,” Clive answered.

  Rocky frowned and for a moment she was silent before she broke out, “I don’t know why he can’t be nice to us—he talks to Sir John; they seem quite friendly.”

  “That’s his title, I expect.”

  Rocky sighed. “Perhaps it is! I must say I love a title myself—not that there’s any hope of getting one,” she added comically.

  She glanced across the smoking-room in which she and Clive Durham were sitting; at a table opposite, Sir John and Richard Wheeler were talking together, Wheeler leaning forward a little, filling his pipe and listening to the elder man’s conversation.

  He was nice-looking, Rocky thought; and then instantly recalled the word, realising that it was ill-chosen, for you could not call such a strong face as Wheeler’s “nice-looking,” it was something infinitely better. Thick brown hair without a suspicion of wave in it, very blue, very steady eyes; she realised that it was the rather hard lines of his mouth and chin which gave him that look of impatient intolerance. Very broad shoulders, and long, capable-looking hands. He was wearing flannel trousers and rather an old tweed coat.

  “I expect you’re thirty-five about,” Rocky told herself, and then—and at the thought the dimple suddenly showed in her cheek—“I’ll bet you’ve got the devil of a temper when you’re upset.”

  She stirred the straw in the lemonade which Clive had just ordered for her, her eyes still on the two men, and suddenly Sir John glanced up and, seeing her, smiled.

  Rocky smiled back.

  “Well, you don’t mind talking to me,” she told herself comfortingly. “And if you can——

  Clive spoke suddenly, breaking in upon her thoughts.

  “Have you got any people? Sisters or anyone?”

  Her eyes fell, and she shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”

  “A lone orphan,” he said humorously.

  She made no comment, and there was a short silence before she asked gaily, “Have you? I mean besides Constance?”

  “I’ve got a pater and mater in New Zealand. They want me to settle down out
there, that’s why I’m going—to see if it’s possible.”

  “Don’t you want to?” she asked.

  “No. I want to stay in England. I was born there, but my mother is a New Zealander, and when the Guvnor retired they went to live out there.”

  Rocky looked interested. “They want you to settle down—as what?” she asked.

  “I’m studying for the law—at least, I’m supposed to be.”

  “How thrilling,” she said; “it’s the last thing I should have expected.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you don’t look like a lawyer—somehow.”

  She glanced across the room again.

  “Mr. Wheeler looks more like a lawyer than you do,” she said.

  “Wrong again,” Clive said calmly. “He’s a gentleman of leisure, doing this trip for his health’s sake.”

  Rocky stared. “For his health! Why, he looks as strong as a lion.”

  “Lions are ill sometimes, I suppose.”

  There was a little silence, till Rocky said thoughtfully, “I expect we’re—all—quite different from what people think.”

  “You mean—in this ship?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  Rocky’s arm jerked suddenly, knocking over the glass at her elbow, and in the confusion which followed she avoided answering. A steward hurried forward with a cloth, and when order was restored once more Clive enquired how long she intended to stay in Ceylon.

  “I don’t know; it depends.”

  “Wheeler knows lots of people in Ceylon. He’ll probably know the people you are staying with.”

  She asked quickly: “Why should he? He can’t know everyone in Ceylon.”

  “All those who matter apparently, from what he was saying the other night.”

  “I must ask him,” she said airily.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “Why not come on to Sydney and stay with us?” he suggested.

  “I should love to,” she said, laughing; “but you seem to forget that we never met until yesterday, and that your people would be rather scandalised if you turned up with a strange girl tacked on to you.”

  “You wouldn’t be strange by that time,” he assured her.

  “I know,” she agreed, “that’s the worst of me. I mean, I make friends with people—with people I like—so quickly that it makes it rather awkward sometimes. It’s rather sad too, when we have to say good-bye.”