She was not wearing Mrs. Atwood's gown now, but her own, wrinkled and stained from its last night's drenching in salt water, but dry now. She was bareheaded and her brown hair was tossing in the sea breeze. The sun, but a little way above the horizon and shining through the morning haze, edged her delicate profile with a line of red gold. I had never seen her look more beautiful, or more aristocratic and unapproachable. The memory of our night in the launch seemed more like an unbelievable dream than ever, and the awakening more cruel. For I was awake now. What I had heard over the 'phone had awakened me thoroughly. There should be no more dreaming.
I stepped out upon the gallery.
“Good morning,” I said.
She turned quickly, and I heard her catch her breath with a little gasp.
“I beg pardon,” said I; “I'm afraid I startled you.”
She was startled, that was evident, and, it seemed to me, a trifle embarrassed. But the embarrassment was but momentary.
“Good morning,” she said. “How very silent you can be when you choose, Mr. Paine. How long have you been standing there, pray?”
“Only a moment. I came to call you to breakfast.”
“To breakfast?”
“Yes, Mrs. Atwood insists upon our breakfasting before I take you ashore.”