La Joconde was berthed beside a Messagerie boat which they had to cross to reach her.
She was a palatial cruising yacht of twelve hundred tons’ burden, built somewhat on the lines of Drexel’s La Margharita, but with less width of funnel.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when they went on board; all the luggage had arrived, steam was up, the port arrangements had been made, and Berselius determined to start at once.
Maxine kissed him, then she turned to Adams.
“Bon voyage.”
“Good-bye,” said Adams.
He held her hand for a fraction of a second after his grasp had relaxed.
Then she was standing on the deck of the Messagerie boat, waving good-bye across the lane of blue water widening between La Joconde and her berth mate.
At the harbour mouth, looking back across the blue wind-swept water, he fancied he could still see her, a microscopic speck in the great picture of terraced Marseilles, with its windows, houses, flags, and domes glittering and burning in the sun.
Then the swell of the Gulf of Lyons took La Joconde as a nurse takes an infant and rocks it on her knee, and France and civilization were slowly wrapped from sight under the veils of distance.