No sails were set; the yacht was under steam, and doing about seven or eight knots.

She judged that it was a boat of a hundred tons or so, probably Clyde-built, and not more than two or three years old.
No one was to be seen on deck except the man at the wheel: this man wore a blue jersey; but there was neither name nor initial on the jersey, nor was there a name on the white life-buoys lashed to the main rigging, nor on the polished dinghy which hung on the starboard davits.

She called to the man, and called again, in a feeble voice, but the steerer took no notice of her, and continued his quiet song as though nothing else existed in the universe save the yacht, the sea, the sun, and himself.
Then her eyes swept the outline of the land from which they were hastening, and she could just distinguish a lighthouse and a great white irregular dome, which she recognized as the Kursaal at Ostend, that gorgeous rival of the gaming palace at Monte Carlo.

So she was leaving Ostend.

The rays of the sun fell on her caressingly, like a restorative.
All around the water was changing from wonderful greys and dark blues to still more wonderful pinks and translucent unearthly greens; the magic kaleidoscope of dawn was going forward in its accustomed way, regardless of the vicissitudes of mortals.
Here and there in the distance she descried a sail--the brown sail of some Ostend fishing-boat returning home after a night's trawling.
Then the beat of paddles caught her ear, and a steamer blundered past, wallowing clumsily among the waves like a tortoise.