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“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Escape was now impossible. ’ ‘Not French?’ echoed Hilary. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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