know, you'll--"

So upset was Jimmie by the kiss, and by the knowledge that he was saying
farewell for the last time, that he nearly exposed his purpose.

"I want the last thing I say to you," he stammered, "to be this: that
whatever you do will be right. I love you so that I will understand."

When he arrived in New York, in his own name, he booked a stateroom on
the _Ceramic_. She was listed to sail that evening after midnight. It
was because she departed at that hour that for a week Jimmie had fixed
upon her as furnishing the scene of his exit. During the day he told
several of his friends that the report of the great oculist had been
against him. Later, they recalled that he talked wildly, that he was
deeply despondent. In the afternoon he sent a telegram to Jeanne:

"Verdict unfavorable. Will remain to-night in town.
All love. J."

At midnight he went on board. The decks and saloons were swarming and
noisy with seagoers, many of whom had come to the ship directly from the
theatres and restaurants, the women bareheaded, in evening gowns. Jimmie
felt grateful to them. They gave to the moment of his taking off an air
of gentle gayety. Among those who were sailing, and those who had come
to wish them "bon voyage," many were known to Jimmie. He told them he
was going abroad at the command of his oculist. Also, he forced himself
upon the notice of officers and stewards, giving them his name, and
making inquiries concerning the non-appearance of fictitious baggage.
Later, they also recalled the young man in dinner jacket and golf cap
who had lost a dressing-case marked "James Blagwin."