"Good-night! Good-night, Miss Adams!"

And the two ladies passed down to their cabins.

Monsieur Fardet was chatting, in a subdued voice, with Headingly, the
young Harvard graduate, bending forward confidentially between the
whiffs of his cigarette.

"Dervishes, Mister Headingly!" said he, speaking excellent English, but
separating his syllables as d Frenchman will. "There are no Dervishes.
They do not exist."

"Why, I thought the woods were full of them," said the American.

Monsieur Fardet glanced across to where the red core of Colonel
Cochrane's cigar was glowing through the darkness.

"You are an American, and you do not like the English," he whispered.
"It is perfectly comprehended upon the Continent that the Americans are
opposed to the English."

"Well," said Headingly, with his slow, deliberate manner, "I won't say
that we have not our tiffs, and there are some of our people--mostly of
Irish stock--who are always mad with England; but the most of us have a
kindly thought for the mother country. You see they may be aggravating
folk sometimes, but after all they are our _own_ folk, and we can't wipe
that off the slate."

"_Eh bien!_" said the Frenchman. "At least I can say to you what I
could not without offence say to these others. And I repeat that there