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little hands, a pink tinge over the white—quite as wonderful as Alison’s in a different way, but so small.

“I don’t believe your hands have ever done anything all your life—and I don’t suppose they ever will, much,” he said thoughtfully. Then he looked sideways at the brass, decided it had reached the maximum of shine, and straightened himself to go on to the next.

“I do lots of things!” said Pamela.

“Do you? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t need to—that’s the main thing. . . . I say, I think your governess is coming back.”

The cracking friendship was soldered again. “Oh, is she? If I go down that passage on the right, where do I come out?”

“At the second stairway. That’s all right. Good-bye.”

He began a fresh bit of polishing, whistling as he worked. Such a pretty kid, it was nice to talk to her. But it must be funny to live in cotton-wool like that . . . he had never seen a child who looked so expensive, and yet her dress was simple enough. . . .

Pamela thought over the interview too. It was practically her first experience of talking to anyone unauthorised, and consequently quite an adventure. Besides, he had been very kind to her, this sailor who looked different from all the others—although he hadn’t known she was Lady Trent. How queer it would be to have to work—but he didn’t seem to mind it. For the next few days the little morocco diary which she carefully wrote up every morning with a new fountain-pen (which would somehow leak, and smudge her fingers horribly) contained brief references to “my Brown Faced Boy”—the sole acquaintance she made on the trip, so careful was Miss Whitney, so many the instructions with which Aunt Sophia had hedged her round.

They met once or twice again before the end of the voyage. Tony looked forward to those meetings; they