"Enclosed is a photo of the fair young man, but for Heaven's sake do not imagine that it resembles your admirer now, with his eight-and-forty years.—Au revoir.
"A. H."
Emilie had never handled a £50 note before in her life. She spread it out on the table, smoothing it with her fingers so tenderly that Old Nick, had he seen her, would have been frantic with jealousy. She even kissed the portrait of His Majesty in the corners before hiding the note away in her breast.
Old Nick was utterly astonished when Mrs. Rantzau informed him that she found herself compelled to leave Strandvik, the air, unfortunately, did not agree with her. She seemed, too, remarkably cool in her manner towards him; her customary smile had faded somewhat, and her ardent eyes, that had been wont to focus themselves upon his own, seemed now to flicker vaguely in no particular direction.
Mrs. Rantzau's sudden departure occasioned much comment. Her most faithful admirer, Consul Jansen, turned up with a big bunch of flowers, and hoisted the flag in his garden at half-mast.
Old Nick, of course, went down to the quay to see her off. As a matter of fact, however, he was now beginning to find the situation rather humorous—a symptom which Thor Smith diagnosed as indicating that his old friend was well on the way at least to convalescence, if not to complete recovery.
Mrs. Rantzau stood on the upper deck in her dark blue dress, with the little toque coquettishly aslant on her head. She waved her handkerchief, and Consul Jansen cried: "Adieu, au revoir!"
"Merci, Monsieur le Consul; je regrette que vous soyez obligé de rester ici parmi ces dromadaires-ci." That was Emilie Rantzau's farewell to Strandvik. As for Old Nick, she did not even grant him so much as a nod.
On the way home he encountered a procession of urchins, ragged, bare-legged and boisterous, waving Japanese fans and Chinese parasols—properties which he seemed to recognise.
"Here, you boys, where did you get those things from?"