“Right or wrong, give it me. You will never regret it.”
Her lips met his, in one sweet, warm, clinging kiss. Then with a murmured, “God bless you, Philip, dear!” she had torn herself away, and was gone.
There was the usual stir and bustle of landing. Then as they were wending their way from the débarcadère in the wake of their luggage, which an hotel porter was hauling before them on a truck, one of Alma’s friends said—
“Who was the other party to the tête-à-tête, Alma? I declare your behaviour is positively scandalous, my dear girl. Do you know you were rather more than a whole hour hobnobbing with him? Come, who was he?”
“An old friend of mine,” she answered, trying to do so lightly, but of course failing abjectly.
“Why don’t you say a dear friend?” said another of the girls, maliciously. “Why, he was standing there on the lower deck as we landed, simply devouring the last of you with his eyes. And they were eyes, too. Come, now, his name? You are not going to get out of that, don’t think it. Who was he?”
“Sir Philip Orlebar.”
“Sir Philip Orlebar?” repeated the last who had spoken and who was by way of being the wag of the party. “And you did not bring him up and introduce him. A whole, real, live baronet—and such a good-looking one, too! Oh, Alma, I should never have thought it of—Gracious goodness!”
The last words were little better than a shriek. For a frightful sound had drowned the speaker’s utterance—a loud, vibrating, strident roar, and a crash as of a heavy missile tearing through planks and rafters. Turning towards it, the faces of the girls blanched with terror and their knees trembled under them, so that they could hardly stand. Those around behaved variously, but all were in a state of the wildest consternation and dismay.
“Mais il éclate—le bateau-à-vapeur!” cried one of the bystanders.