would
have to journey together on the sea yet a while. He bethought him of his
duties, as host; these--his two passengers-were in his care.

"You should find biscuits in a basket and water in a cask," he said,
speaking to both of them, and, at the same time, to immeasurable
distance. "If you don't mind looking--I can't very well."

At that, a nervous laugh welled from Sonia Turgeinov's throat; she had
to give way. Possibly the absurd thought seized her that all the
tragedies and comedies might be simmered down to one thing. Were there
biscuits in the basket? But Betty Dalrymple did not laugh; her eyes were
like stars on a wintry night; her face was white as paper. It was turned
now from the steersman--ahead. She saw the blur before them become a
definite line of green; later she made out details, the large heads of
small trees. The former looked like big overflowing cabbages; the
trunks, beneath, sprawled this way and that, as the vagaries of the wind
had directed their growth. In front of them and the vernal strip, a
white line slowly resolved itself into moving foam. She--they all could
hear it now, faintly--they were very near; no thunderous anthem it
pealed forth; its voice seethed in soft cadences.

Mr. Heatherbloom, with sheet taut, ran his craft toward the sands but
the boat grounded some little distance from the shore. It was useless to
attempt to go farther so he let his sail out, got up and stepped
overboard. The water was rather more than knee deep; he tugged at the
boat and attempted to draw her up farther without much success. She was
too heavy, and desisting from his efforts, he approached Miss Dalrymple.
The young girl shrank back slightly, but seeming not to notice that
first instinctive movement, he reached over and lifted her out. It was
done in a businesslike manner and with no more outward concern than a
Kikuji porter might have displayed in meeting the exigencies of a like
situation. The bubbles seethed around Mr. Heatherbloom's legs; unmindful
of them or the shifting sands beneath foot, he strode straight as might
be for the shore. His burden was not a heavy one but it seemed very
still and unyielding. He released her at the earliest possible
opportunity and in the same matter-of-fact way (still that of a human
ferry on the banks of the turbulent Chania) he returned for his other
passenger. Around Sonia Turgeinov's rich lips a mocking smile seemed to
play; she arose at once.

"How charming! Ho