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.