The crowd began to trickle down the long steps to the feast in the
mess hall. She dreaded the descent, the long walk, the sitting at
table. She wanted to go home and cry very hard and be good and sick
for a long while.

But she could not desert Davidge at such a time or mar his triumph by
her hypochondria. She wavered as she climbed down. She rode with
Davidge to the mess-hall in his car and forced herself to voice
congratulations too solemn and too fervid for words.

The guests of honor sat at a table disguised with scenery as a ship's
deck. A thousand people sat at the other tables and took part in the
banquet.

Mamise could not eat the food of human caterers. She had fed on
honey-dew and drunk the milk of paradise.

She lived through the long procession of dishes and heard some of the
oratory, the glowing praises of Davidge and Uncle Sam, Mr. Schwab, Mr.
Hurley, President Wilson, the Allies, and everybody else. She heard it
proclaimed that America was going back to the sea, so long neglected.
The prodigal was returning home.

Mamise could think of nothing but a wish to be in bed. The room began
to blur. People's faces went out of focus. Her teeth began to chatter.
Her jaw worked ridiculously like a riveting-gun. She was furious at
it.

She heard Davidge whispering: "What's the matter, honey? You're ill
again."

"I--I fancy--I--I guess I--I--am," she faltered.

"O God!" he groaned, "why did you come out?"

He rose, lifted her elbow, murmured something to the guests. He would
have supported her to the door, but she pleaded:

"Don't! They'll think it's too much ch-ch-champagne. I'm all right!"

She made the door in excellent control, but it cost her her last cent
of strength. Outside, she would have fallen, but he huddled her in his
arms, lifted her, carried her to his car. He piled robes on her, but
those riveters inside her threatened to pound her to death. Burning
pains gnawed her chest like cross-cut saws.

When the car stopped she was not in front of her cottage, but before
the hospital.

When the doctor finished his inspection she heard him mumble to
Davidge:

"Pneumonia! Double pneumonia!"

CHAPTER IX

Once more Mamise had come between Davidge and his work. He did not
care what happened to his ships or his shipyard. He watched Mamise
fighting for life, if indeed she fought, for he could not get to her
through the fog.

She was often delirious and imagined herself back in her cru