"And so this is Malata," she said. "I have often wondered . . ."

A shiver passed through Renouard. She had wondered! What about?
Malata was himself. He and Malata were one. And she had wondered!
She had . . .

The professor's sister leaned over towards Renouard. Through all
these days at sea the man's--the found man's--existence had not
been alluded to on board the schooner. That reticence was part of
the general constraint lying upon them all. She, herself,
certainly had not been exactly elated by this finding--poor Arthur,
without money, without prospects. But she felt moved by the
sentiment and romance of the situation.

"Isn't it wonderful," she whispered out of her white wrap, "to
think of poor Arthur sleeping there, so near to our dear lovely
Felicia, and not knowing the immense joy in store for him to-
morrow."

There was such artificiality in the wax-flower lady that nothing in
this speech touched Renouard. It was but the simple anxiety of his
heart that he was voicing when he muttered gloomily -

"No one in the world knows what to-morrow may hold in store."

The mature lady had a recoil as though he had said something
impolite. What a harsh thing to say--instead of finding something
nice and appropriate. On board, where she never saw him in evening
clothes, Renouard's resemblance to a duke's son was not so apparent
to her. Nothing but his--ah--bohemianism remained. She rose with