It was half-past seven in the evening, that is, dinner time, and Morris stood in the study waiting for Stella, who had announced through the housemaid that she was coming down.
After telling the servants to send for the doctor and attend to his companion, who had insisted upon being led straight to her father’s room, Morris’s first act that morning on reaching home was to take a bath as hot as he could bear. Then he drank several cups of coffee with brandy in it, and as the office would soon be open, wrote a telegram to Mary, which ran thus:
“If you hear that I have been drowned, don’t believe it. Have arrived safe home after a night at sea.”
This done, for he guessed that all sorts of rumours would be abroad, he inquired after Mr. Fregelius and Stella. Having learned that they were both going on well and sent off his telegram, Morris went to bed and slept for ten hours.
Morris looked round the comfortable sitting-room with its recessed Tudor windows, its tall bookcases and open hearth, where burned a bright fire of old ship’s timbers supported on steel dogs, and thought to himself that he was fortunate to be there. Then the door opened, he heard the housemaid’s voice say, “This way please, Miss,” and Stella came in. She wore a plain white dress that seemed to fit her very well, though where she got it from he never discovered, and her luxuriant hair was twisted up into a simple knot. On the bosom of her dress was fixed a spray of brilliant ampelopsis leaves; it was her only ornament, but none could have been more striking. For the rest, although she limped and still looked dark and weary about the eyes, to all appearances she was not much the worse for their terrible adventure.
Morris glanced at her. Could this dignified and lovely young lady be that red-cloaked, loose-haired Valkyrie whom he had seen singing at daybreak upon the prow of the sinking ship, or the piteous bedraggled person whom he had supported from the altar in the Dead Church?
She guessed his thought—from the beginning Stella had this curious power of discovering his mind—and said with a smile:
“Fine feathers make fine birds, and even Cleopatra would have looked dreadful after a November night in an open boat.”
“Have you recovered?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Monk; that is, I don’t think I am going to have inflammation of the lungs or anything horrid of the sort. The remedies and that walk stopped it. But my feet are peeling from being soaked so long in salt water, and my hands are not much better. See,” and she held them towards him.