t only for a
pretence. She did not in the least want to read, nor could her eyes
just now have distinguished a word of the text. She was wholly
miserable; and yet, curiously enough, after the first minute her misery
did not rest on despair, or at any rate not consciously. She was
wretched because the boy had broken away and gone without her, and
'Dolph with him--'Dolph, her own dog. They were ungrateful. . . .
Had not everything gone right so long as they had obeyed her? While
now--They would find out, of course. Even Arthur Miles would begin to
feel hungry after a while, and then--'Dolph might keep going for a time
on rabbits, though as a circus-dog he was not clever at sport.

Yes, she had a right to be indignant. She had lost command for a
moment, and Arthur Miles had straightway led her into this trap. . . .
This was all very well, but deep down beneath the swellings of
indignation there lurked a thought that gradually surmounted them,
working upwards until it sat whispering in her ear. . . . They were in a
tight place, no doubt, . . . but was she behaving well? Now that the
mess was made and could not be unmade, where was the pluck--where was
even the sense--of sitting here and sulking? Had she stuck it out, why
then at the end she could have forgiven him, and they would have died
together. . . . She stared forlornly at the book, and a ridiculous
mocking sentence stared back at her: "It is often surprising into what
tasty breakfast dishes the cunning housewife will convert the least
promising materials." In a gust of temper she caught up the book and
hurled it from her.

And yet . . . with all these birds about, there must surely be eggs.
She had not a notion how gulls' eggs tasted. Raw eggs! they would
certainly be nasty; but raw eggs, after all, will support life.
Moreover, deliverance might come, and before long. The Tossells, when
they found the boat missing, would start a search, and on the Island
there might be some means of signalling. How could she be forgiven, or
forgive herself, if the rescuers arrived to find Arthur Miles dead and
herself alive?

With that a dreadful apprehension seized her, and she stood erect,
listening. . . . She had let him go alone, into Heaven knew what perils.
He was searching along the cliffs, searching for a cave, and very likely
for gulls' eggs on the way. . . . What easier than to slip and break his
neck? She listened--listened. But the sound of 'Dolph's bar