As Stanief stepped on the deck, another gorgeous flag rose majestically into place and unfolded its emblazoned notice of his presence. His drowsy black eyes swept over the scene comprehensively, then he gave a brief order to the captain and crossed directly to Allard. And Allard, rising to receive him, suddenly felt his heart quicken with a strange, familiar violence. "We Allards love more than other people," Robert had said. This was what he was giving Stanief, he realized with something like dismay,—that passion of fierce un-English intensity which considered nothing and made him its plaything. He had not meant to care like that again—
"Good morning, John," said the cool, faintly imperious voice; the warmly dark eyes met his.
Sighing, Allard yielded up the last resistance and gave his all.
"Your Royal Highness—" he murmured, and hated himself for the unsteadiness of his tone.
Stanief sank into a chair and waved him to the one opposite.
"We are going to sail at once," he announced. "We will watch our progress out of the harbor and then have lunch. You have passed an agreeable morning?"
"Yes—no," answered Allard incoherently, taken by surprise. "That is, everything is right now."
Interpreting for himself, Stanief smiled.
"Tell me about it," he suggested.
The ringing of anchor chains ceased, the little launch again swung in its davits. The yacht shuddered, moved. Vasili came up and saluted rigidly.