“Captain—” She arrested herself. “Oh, it’s to go to the captain’s.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bruce returned to her room and sat on the side of the bed in deep meditation. Betsy might store her possessions in the house of an old friend until her plans were made.
The sense of desolation that overtook her as the trunk had disappeared submerged her afresh; and Irving’s words returned to pierce her.
Rosalie Vincent—in a class by herself. Her splendid Irving, whose career was to have made her life one pageant of gratified pride.
She sank upon her pillows with a groan. Her world was falling about her like a flimsy house of cards.
In the evening she heard him come in. He had to pass her room to get to his. She stood in the open doorway.
“Did you enjoy your picnic, dear?” she asked, as he appeared.
“We didn’t have any. I found Captain Salter’s house deserted, and his boat gone. I’ve been taking a long walk.”