The dying and the dead were leaping about in the wildest exhibition of gleeful triumph!
The yacht slipped into the unreachable horizon, the feathery cloud from its stack lying over against the leaden sky, shaped like a finger that pointed mockingly the way to safety.
White-faced and despairing, the watchers turned away and dragged themselves into the splendid halls of the building they had now come to regard as their tomb. Their voices were hushed and tremulous; they were looking at the handwriting on the wall. They had not noticed it there before.
Saunders was bravely saying to his distracted wife, as he led her down the marble hall:
"Don't give up the ship, dear. My word for it, we'll live to see that garden out Hammersmith way. My word for it, dear."
"He's trying so hard to be brave," said Genevra, oppressed by the knowledge that it was her ship that had played them false. "And Agnes? Look, Hollingsworth! She is herself again. Ah, these British women come up under the lash, don't they?"
Lady Deppingham had thrown off her hopeless, despondent air; she was crying out words of cheer and encouragement to those about her. Her eyes were flashing, her head was erect and her voice was rich with inspiration.
"And you?" asked Chase, after a moment. "What of you? Your ship has come and gone and you are still here—with me. You almost wished for this."
"No. I almost wished that it would not come. There is a distinction," she said bitterly. "It has come and it has disappointed all of us—not one alone."
"Do you remember what it was that Saunders said about having lived only a week, all told? The rest was nothing."