She opened the door timidly.
Miss Conyers was lying on the upper berth, with the curtains drawn down before her.
“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, how are you? Can I do anything for you?” murmured Erminie, stealing to the berth and cautiously lifting a corner of the curtain.
“No! don’t speak to me! leave me!” was all that Miss Conyers replied, and in a voice so hoarse as to be nearly inaudible.
Pale with pity and with awe, Erminie dropped the curtain, and sank into the one chair their little den boasted.
She sat there quite still, and forgetting to prepare for dinner until the bell clanged out its invitation to the table and aroused her from her trance of trouble.
Then she hastily arose, threw off her bonnet, shook back her auburn ringlets, and hurried out to join her father and his friends, who were on their way to the dining-room.
Much concern was expressed by them that Miss Conyers was not able to come to dinner.
Once again in the course of that afternoon Erminie went to the stateroom to implore Britomarte to take some refreshment.
Then Miss Conyers suddenly drew the curtain back, and turned upon the intruder a face so pale and ghastly in its grief and horror that Erminie shrank back appalled.