"Which steamer, Miss Dickett?" the chauffeur inquired respectfully; all the employees of the Julia Carter Sykes establishment respected Molly, as well they might. A sudden, happy irresponsibility flooded Molly's tired mind, and she smiled into the man's face—the old, not-to-be-resisted Molly Dickett smile.
"The name of the boat is Ella, Pierce," she said cheerfully, "and it's a small boat, not a liner. Look it up."
And as he disappeared she laughed aloud.
She was still laughing softly when he returned, looking worried.
"I think you must have told me wrong, Miss Dickett, didn't you?" he began hurriedly, lifting out her small, flat trunk. "It's the Stella you mean, isn't it? There seems to be a misunderstanding; they said the stateroom was countermanded at the last minute, but the party's name was Richards. It's all right now, but we nearly lost it—they're holding her for you. There don't seem to be any more passengers—are you sure there's no mistake?"
"Perfectly sure," said Molly, sober enough now. "I'm very much indebted to you, Pierce."
She gave him a tip that caught his breath, walked up the gang-plank of the Stella, nodded easily to a severe official, and followed a pale, neat stewardess to her state-room.
"Where is this boat going?" she asked of the pale stewardess, who gasped and replied,
"South America, ma'am. Didn't you know?"
"I may have forgotten," said Molly, and then sleep overcame her and the days and nights were one for a long time.