“Match?” said Alleyn.

She started, lost her balance, and sat down abruptly. “How long have you been there?” she demanded ungraciously.

“Only just come. I–I haven’t been spying. May I give you a match?”

“Oh — thanks. Chuck up the box, would you?” She lit her cigarette, eyeing him over the top of her long thin hands, and then turned to look again at her work.

“It is exceedingly good, isn’t it?” said Alleyn.

She hunched up one shoulder as if his voice was a piercing draught in her ear, muttered something, and crawled back to her work. She picked up her palette and began mixing a streak of colour with her knife.

“You’re not going to do anything more to it?” said Alleyn involuntarily.

She turned her head and stared at him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s perfect — you’ll hurt it. I say, please forgive me. Frightful impertinence. I do apologise.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said impatiently, and screwed up her eyes to peer at the canvas.

“I merely thought—” began Alleyn.

“I had an idea,” said the painter, “that if I worked up here on this hideously uncomfortable perch, I might possibly have the place to myself for a bit.”

“You shall,” said Alleyn, and bowed to her profile. He tried to remember if he had ever before been quite so pointedly snubbed by a total stranger. Only, he reflected, by persons he was obliged to interview in the excution of his duties as an officer of Scotland Yard. On those occasions he persisted. On this an apologetic exit seemed to be clearly indicated. He walked to the top of the companion-way, and then paused.

“But if you do anything more, you’ll be a criminal. The thing’s perfect. Even I can see that, and I— ”

‘“Don’t know anything about it, but I do know what I like,’” quoted the lady savagely.

“I was not about to produce that particular bromide,” said Alleyn mildly.

For the first time since he had spoken to her, she gave him her full attention. A rather charming grin lifted the corners of her mouth.

“All right,” she said, “I’m being objectionable. My turn to apologise. I thought at first you were one of the ‘don’t put me in it’ sort of onlookers.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“I wasn’t going to do too much,” she went on, actually as if she had turned suddenly shy. “It’s just that figure in the foreground — I left it too late. Worked for an hour before we sailed. There should be a repetition of the blueish grey there, but I can’t remember—” She paused, worried.

“But there was!” exclaimed Alleyn. “The reflection off the water up the inside of the thighs. Don’t you remember?”

“Golly — you’re right,” she said. “Here — wait a bit.”

She picked up a thin brush, broke it through the colour, held it poised for a second, and then laid a delicate touch on the canvas. “That?”

“Yes,” cried Alleyn excitedly. “That’s done it. Now you can stop.”

“All right, all right. I didn’t realise you were a painting bloke.”

“I’m not. It’s simply insufferable cheek.”

She began to pack up her box.

“Well, I must say you’re very observant for a layman. Good memory.”

“Not really,” said Alleyn. “It’s synthetic.”

“You mean you’ve trained your eye?”

“I’ve had to try to do so, certainly.”

“Why?”

“Part of my job. Let me take that box for you.”

“Oh — thank you. Mind the lid — it’s a bit painty. Pity to spoil those lovely trousers. Will you take the sketch?”

“Do you want a hand down?” offered Alleyn.

“I can manage, thank you,” she said gruffly, and clambered down to the deck.

Alleyn had propped the canvas against the rail and now stood looking at it. She joined him, eyeing it with the disinterested stare of the painter.

“Why!” murmured Alleyn suddenly. “Why, you must be Agatha Troy.”

“That’s me.”

“Good Lord, what a self-sufficient fathead I’ve been.”

“Why?” said Agatha Troy. “You were all right. Very useful.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn humbly. “I saw your one-man show a year ago in London.”

“Did you?” she said without interest.

“I should have guessed at once. Isn’t there a sort of relationship between this painting and the ‘In the Stadium’?”

“Yes.” She moved her eyebrows quickly. “That’s quite true. The arrangement’s much the same — radiating lines and a spotted pattern. Same feeling. Well, I’d better go down to my cabin and unpack.”

“You joined the ship at Suva?”

“Yes. I noticed this subject from the main deck. Things shove themselves at you like that sometimes. I dumped my luggage, changed, and came up.”

She slung her box over her shoulder and picked up the sketch.

“Can I—?” said Alleyn diffidently.

“No, thanks.”

She stood for a moment staring back towards Fiji. Her hands gripped the shoulder-straps of her paintbox. The light breeze whipped back her short dark hair, revealing the contour of the skull and the delicate bones of the face. The temples were slightly hollow, the cheek-bones showed, the dark-blue eyes were deep-set under the thin ridge of the brows. The sun caught the olive skin with its smudge of green paint, and gave it warmth. There was a kind of spare gallantry about her. She turned quickly before he had time to look away and their gaze met.

Alleyn was immediately conscious of a clarification of his emotions. As she stood before him, her face slowly reddening under his gaze, she seemed oddly familiar. He felt that he already knew her next movement, and the next inflexion of her clear, rather cold voice. It was a little as though he had thought of her a great deal, but never met her before. These impressions held him transfixed, for how long he never knew, while he still kept his eyes on hers. Then something clicked in his mind, and he realised that he had stared her out of countenance. The blush had mounted painfully to the roots of her hair and she had turned away.

“I’m sorry,” said Alleyn steadily. “I’m afraid I was looking at the green smudge on your cheek.”

She scrubbed at her face with the cuff of her smock.

“I’ll go down,” she said, and picked up the sketch.

He stood aside, but she had to pass close to him, and again he was vividly aware of her, still with the same odd sense of surprised familiarity. She smelt of turpentine and paint, he noticed.

“Well — good evening,” she said vaguely.

Alleyn laughed a little.

“Good evening, madam.”

She started off down the ladder, moving sideways and holding the wet sketch out over the hand-rail. He, turned away and lit a cigarette. Suddenly a terrific rumpus broke out on the deck below. The hot cheap reek of frangipanni blossoms drifted up, and with it the voice of the success of the ship.

“Oh, pardon me. Come right down. Gangway, fellows. Oh say, pardon me, but have you been making a picture? Can I have a peek? I’m just crazy about sketching. Look, boys — isn’t that cute? The wharf! My, my, it’s a shame you haven’t been able to finish it, isn’t it? It would have been swell! Look, boys, it’s the wharf. Maybe a snapshot would help. We’ll surely have to watch our step with an artist on board. Say, let’s get acquainted. We’ve been celebrating and we feel fine. Meet the mob. I’m Virginia Van Maes.”

“My name’s Troy,” said a voice that Alleyn could scarcely recognise. A series of elaborate introductions followed.

“Well, Miss Troy, I was going to tell you how Caley Burt painted my portrait in Noo York. You’ve heard of Caley Burt? I guess he’s one of the most exclusive portraitists in America. Well, it seems he was just crazy to take my picture— ”

The anecdote was a long one. Agatha Troy remained silent throughout.

“Well, when he was through — and say, did I get tired of that dress? — it was one big success. Poppa bought it, and it’s in our reception-hall at Honolulu. Some of the crowd say it doesn’t just flatter, but it looks good to me. I don’t pretend to know a whole lot about art, Miss Troy, but I know what I like.”