Betty finally came and sat with us. She talked to Pierce, to Simmons, and to me; and at me she looked with puzzlement in her quiet gray eyes and bit her under lip and looked away.
“Do you feel so completely a stranger to me?” she whispered, drawing her chair near to mine.
“Like a stranger?” I said. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because you look at me as if—as if we were just speaking acquaintances.”
“I didn’t know,” I apologized. “I’ll do better. You,” I continued, looking at her, “don’t look as happy as I expected you would.”
“One doesn’t,” she whispered, rising to go, “when one’s in a hidden country and nobody will help one out.”
“Help you out?” I whispered, but she was gone.
I wearied my brains in vain puzzling over her meaning; but that evening Dr. Olson whistled and wondered whence had come the new strength which animated my pulse, my eyes, my whole being.
“And that makes two of you,” said he, “because Wilson’s sitting up shaving himself and says he’ll take the yacht out to sea tomorrow.”