“Good-bye, John,” she said simply. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. The dining saloon was done in mahogany and sandalwood, with eight cabins, four to port and four to starboard. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close.
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