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 rapid one to keep pace with her, he discovered; for although she appeared to be moving not even briskly, she swept onward with a graceful and tranquil speed that inspired poetic improvisation in one of two astonished young men who emerged from coffee in the lounge, half an hour later.

This was the black-browed Macklyn's spoken thought of her as he and Albert Jones, deciding instantly upon a promenade for themselves, more moderately followed the fast-moving pair. Then the poet became prosaic. "How in the name of a name d'you suppose he's ever managed to meet her?"

"I'd like to know that myself," said the envious Jones. "He's always lucky, that fellow. His new play is running like wildfire and people make a great fuss over him;—everybody tells him seriously he's a 'great artist'; and he's even lucky enough to believe it. Now he's had the prodigious luck to meet this one wonderful-looking woman on board, and he'll probably also be lucky enough to interest her and monopolize her. Anyhow, he'll try to; you'll see.