She looked up at him, her eyes filled with sudden tears. "I was so happy on the boat," she said. "I knew it couldn't last."
He sat down. "Nonsense. Everything will come out all right. Your father is probably shielding some one—"
She nodded. "Of course. But if he's made up his mind not to talk, he just simply won't talk. He's odd that way. They may keep him down there, and I shall be all alone—"
"Not quite alone," John Quincy told her.
"No, no," she said. "I've warned you. We're not the sort the best people care to know—"
"The more fools they," cut in the boy. "I'm John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. And you—"
"Carlota Maria Egan," she answered. "You see, my mother was half Portuguese. The other half was Scotch-Irish—my father's English. This is the melting pot out here, you know." She was silent for a moment. "My mother was very beautiful," she added wistfully. "So they tell me—I never knew."
John Quincy was touched. "I thought how beautiful she must have been," he said gently. "That day I met you on the ferry."
The girl dabbed at her eyes with an absurd little handkerchief, and stood up. "Well," she remarked, "this is just another thing that has to be faced. Another call for courage—I must meet it." She smiled. "The lady manager of the Reef and Palm. Can I show you a room?"
"I say, it'll be a rather stiff job, won't it?" John Quincy rose too.