"There she is!" cried Jill.

"Where?" said I, screwing up my eyes and peering eagerly at the crowded
taffrails.

"There, Boy, there. Look, she's seen us. She's waving."

Hardly I followed the direction of my cousin's pink index finger, which
was stretched quivering towards the promenade deck.

"Is that her in blue?"

But a smiling Jill was already nodding and waving unmistakably to the
tall slim figure, advances which the latter was as surely returning with
a cheerly wave of her slight blue arm. Somewhat sheepishly I took off my
hat.

Adèle Feste had arrived.

More than fifteen months had elapsed since we had reluctantly seen her
into the boat-train at Euston and wished her a safe journey to her
American home. At the time, with an uneasiness bred of experience, I had
wondered whether our friendship was to survive the battery of time and
distance, or whether it was destined to slip into a decline and so,
presently, out of our lives, fainting and painless. Touch, however, had
been maintained by a fitful correspondence, and constant references to
Miss Feste's promised visit to White Ladies--a consummation which we one
and all desired--were made for what they were worth. Finally my sister
sat down and issued a desperate summons. "My dear, don't keep us waiting