“In one sense it certainly isn’t; but I can’t help feeling a little troubled about the thing. You see, Gregory is quite an old friend.”
“And the girl is going to marry him,” said Mrs. Hastings, raising her eyebrows.
Wyllard rose. “That reminder,” he said, “is quite uncalled for. I would like to assure you of it.”
He went out, and Mrs. Hastings sat still in a reflective mood.
“If she begins to compare him with Hawtrey, there can be only one result,” she said.
The fog had almost gone next morning, and pale sunshine streamed down upon a a froth-flecked sea. A bitter wind, however, still came out of the hazy north, and the Scarrowmania’s plates were crusted with ice where the highest crests of the tumbling seas reached them. The spray froze, and the decks grew slippery. When darkness came, nobody but the seamen faced the stinging cold. Agatha felt the engines stop late that night, and when she went out next morning the decks were white, and she could see dim ghosts of sliding pines through a haze of falling snow that became bewilderingly thick at times, but the steamer slid on through it with whistle hooting. At last toward sunset the snow cleared away and Agatha stood shivering under a deck-house. She looked about her with a curiously heavy heart.
A gray haze stretched across the great river, which was dim and gray, and odd wisps of pines rose raggedly beneath the white hills that cut against a gloomy, lowering sky. Deck-house, boat, and stanchion dripped, and every now and then the silence was broken by a doleful blast of the whistle. Nothing moved on the still, gray water, there was no sign of life ashore, and they seemed to be steaming into a great desolation.
Presently, Wyllard appeared from somewhere, and, after a glance at her face, slipped his hand beneath her arm, and led her down to the lighted saloon. There her heart grew a little lighter. Once more she was conscious of the feeling that she was safe with him.