of clearing his thoughts, had merely accelerated their pace.
At Genoa he wandered about in the hot streets, bought a cheap suit-case and some underclothes, and then went down to the port in search of a little hotel he remembered there. An hour later he was sitting in the coffee-room, smoking and glancing vacantly over the papers while he waited for dinner, when he became aware of being timidly but intently examined by a small round-faced gentleman with eyeglasses who sat alone at the adjoining table.
"Hullo—Buttles!" Lansing exclaimed, recognising with surprise the recalcitrant secretary who had resisted Miss Hicks's endeavour to convert him to Tiepolo.
Mr. Buttles, blushing to the roots of his scant hair, half rose and bowed ceremoniously.
Nick Lansing's first feeling was of annoyance at being disturbed in his solitary broodings; his next, of relief at having to postpone them even to converse with Mr. Buttles.
"No idea you were here: is the yacht in harbour?" he asked, remembering that the Ibis must be just about to spread her wings.
Mr. Buttles, at salute behind his chair, signed a mute negation: for the moment he seemed too embarrassed to speak.
"Ah—you're here as an advance guard? I remember now—I saw Miss Hicks in Venice the day before yesterday," Lansing continued, dazed
