"Do you mind telling me what happened, so that I know exactly where we stand and what there is to be done."
Diana laughed.
"There is nothing to be done."
April forgave her the laugh, because it was not composed of merriment nor any elements of joyousness.
"I went to Geoffrey's cabin because we had things to talk over, and it seemed the only place where we could get away from prying eyes. Somehow I stayed on and on, not realizing it was so late . . . and then, and then . . ." She began to stammer; defiance left her . . . "then, that awful knocking . . . those faces staring in! . . . all those brutes of women!" She covered her eyes with her hands and broke down utterly. "My God! I am done for!"
April thought so, too. It seemed to her they were both done for, but there was not much help in saying so. Diana's confession horrified her, and she saw that her own future at the Cape was knocked as flat as a house of cards that is demolished by the wayward hand of a child. Yet at that moment her principal feeling was one of compassion for the girl on the sofa, who alternately laughed and covered her eyes, and now with a pitiful attempt at bravado was attempting to light a cigarette, with hands that shook like aspen leaves.
"I suppose it was that cat Stanislaw who started the search for me?"
"It appears that she got into a panic when you did not return to your cabin, and went and told the Captain she feared you were overboard."
"The she-fiend! Much she cared if I was at the bottom of the sea! She had pried out where I was, and that was her subtle way of advertising it to the whole ship."
"I believe you are right," said April slowly, "though it is hard to understand how any one could do a thing so studiedly cruel."