"Good-bye, and thank you, again and again!" He bowed from where he stood in the center of his quiet and sheltered office, seeming, to her, a strangely old-time and courtly figure, a proud yet unpretentious student of life at peace with his own soul.
The years would come and go, the years that would so age and wear and torture _her_, but he would reign on in that quiet office unchanged, contented, still at peace with himself and all his world.

"Good-bye," she said for the third time, from the doorway.
Then she hurried down to her waiting carriage and raced for the quay.
There she took an almost malicious delight in the bustle and perturbation to which her return gave sudden rise.

The sleepy and sullen crew were stirred out, signals were clanged, ropes were cast off; and down in her little narrow cabin, securely shut off from the driving spray, she could feel and hear the boat lurch and pound through the waves.

Then came shrill calls of the whistle above, the sound of gruff voices, the rasp and scrape of heaving woodwork against woodwork, the grind of the ladder against the boat-fenders, the cry of the officer telling her to hurry.
She walked up the _Slavonia's_ ladder steadily, demurely, for under the lights of the promenade deck she could see the clustering, inquisitive heads, where a dozen crowding passengers tried to ascertain just who could be coming aboard with such ceremony.
Leaning over the rail, with a cigar in his mouth, she caught sight of her husband.

As she passed him, at the head of the ladder, he spoke one short sentence to her, under his breath.
It was a commonplace enough little sentence, but as the purport of it filtered through her tired mind it stung her into both a new wariness of attitude and thought and a new gratefulness of heart.
For as she passed him, without one betraying emotion or one glance aside, he had whispered to her, under his breath: "_Keenan is here, on board.