"Marise, you laughed!" she reproved her daughter. "How could you?"
"I didn't, I only boo-higgled in my throat."
"I wish you'd be more careful," cautioned the elder woman. "If you're not, take it from me, you may be sorry yet. Tony is worried about something. I noticed it the moment we came on board. You know what an instinct I have! I feel as if—but I mustn't tell you now. He may get to his stateroom and hear us."
"What makes you think he could hear us from his stateroom?" asked Marise. "Do you know where it is?"
"Why, yes," replied the other. "I was with him when he chose the place for our chairs. You were in our cabin showing Céline what to unpack. He pointed out his window, and—but my goodness!"
A gasp stopped her words. Marise followed the direction of the puzzled or startled brown eyes. They stared at the window just closed, from whose sill ginger-beer continued to drip.
"Is that his room?" breathed the girl.
"I thought that was the window, but I must be mistaken, of course. Probably it's the next one—on my side or yours."
Marise let the question drop. She wasn't pining to confide the contents of her mind. Besides, her conjectures were too vague for words. In striving to frame them she would surely laugh, and Mums would think her a callous wretch.
Mrs. Sorel, anxious to be overheard saying the right thing, if she were overheard at all, began to chat about friends who had sent flowers or telegrams on board. Each name she mentioned had a "handle." She liked Lord Severance to be reminded casually now and then that her girl had titled admirers outside the circle he had brought round them. But Marise was not listening. She was putting two and two together.