Immediately after dinner she retired to her state-room, conscious that
her balance needed readjusting. She had heard and read much lore
concerning reincarnation, skeptically; yet here, within call of her
voice, was Arthur, not the shadow of a substance, but Arthur, shorn of
his elegance, his soft lazy voice, his half-dreaming eyes, his charming
indolence. Why should this man's path cross hers, out of all the
millions that ran parallel?

She opened her window and looked up at the stars again. She saw one
fall, describe an arc and vanish. She wondered what this man had done
to put him beyond the pale; for few white men remained in Asia from
choice. She had her ideas of what a rascal should be; but Warrington
agreed in no essential. It was not possible that dishonor lurked
behind those frank blue eyes. She turned from the window, impatiently,
and stared at one of her kit-bags. Suddenly she knelt down and threw
it open, delved among the soft fabrics and silks and produced a
photograph. She had not glanced at it during all these weeks. There
had been a purpose back of this apparent neglect. The very thing she
dreaded happened. Her pulse beat on, evenly, unstirred. She was a
failure.

In the photograph the man's beard was trimmed Valois; the beard of the
man who had sat next to her at dinner had grown freely and naturally,
full. Such a beard was out of fashion, save among country doctors. It
signified carelessness, indifference, or a full life wherein the
niceties of the razor had of necessity been ignored. Keenly she
searched the familiar likeness. What an amazing freak of nature! It
was unreal. She tossed the photograph back into the kit-bag,
bewildered, uneasy.