me get drunk with Dawson and Major Ayers in his place. And so, to one and all: Good night.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for Dorothy?” Mark Frost asked. She glanced toward the wheelhouse.
“No. I guess Pete can look out for himself,” she replied, and left them. The moon cast a deep shadow on the western side of the deck, and near the companionway some one lay in a chair. She slowed, passing. “Mrs. Maurier?” she said. “We wondered what had become of you. Been asleep?”
Mrs. Maurier sat up slowly, as a very old person moves. The younger woman bent down to her, quickly solicitous. “You don’t feel well, do you?”
“Is it time to go below?” Mrs. Maurier asked, raising herself more briskly. “Our bridge game. . .”
“You all had beat us too badly. But can’t I—”
“No, no,” Mrs. Maurier objected quickly, a trifle testily. “Its nothing: I was just sitting here enjoying the moonlight.”
“We thought Mr. Gordon was with you.” Mrs. Maurier shuddered.
“These terrible men,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “These artists!”
“Gordon, too? I thought he had escaped Dawson and Julius.”
“Gordon, too,” Mrs. Maurier replied. She rose. “Come, I think we’d better go to bed.” She shuddered again, as with cold: her flesh seemed to shake despite her, and she took the younger woman’s arm, clinging to it. “I do feel a little tired,” she confessed. “The first few days are always trying, don’t you think? But we have a very nice party, don’t you think so?”
“An awfully nice party,” the other agreed without irony. “But we are all tired: we’ll all feel better to-morrow, I know.”
