"She! I'm not acquainted with your meaning."
"It's that horrid Margot," said Tilly. "Have I not bought hats from her and robes from her at Arles, and don't I know what she really and truly is like?"
"Oh, do ye? I'm thinkin' ye don't. I'll be wishin' ye a good day now, Miss Tilly. Don't ye try pins on horses again when there are cats about."
"It was a horrid mean thing to do," said Tilly. "Anyone else would have called out, but he's too mean."
"Don't ye be runnin' down Malachi," exclaimed Flannigan. "Ye wanted to kill or injure the darling of the place. I'm thinking one of your stories is about as true as the other. Good day to ye now, I'm off!" He gave a queer, awkward nod and disappeared up the companion and along the deck until he reached the gangway.
Tilly thought herself quite the most miserable girl in all the world, but still she might have her revenge yet. If she tried very, very, very hard, if The Desmond did not believe in the story of the shop, at least M. le Comte St. Juste would. It would be her business to get things in train and make things very hard for the little Comtesse against her return to Arles.
Tilly Raynes had a horrible crossing. The boat was small, the sea was rough. She hated all physical discomforts. She cried to the stewardess and begged of her to stay with her, assuring her that she was a very ill-used little girl and had no right to be going in that ricketty old boat at all.
"Well you are in it," said the stewardess, "and if God is merciful we may yet reach dry land."
"What do you mean—what do you mean?" said Tilly, forgetting her terror and hatred of the Desmonds, in the nearer and possible terror of imminent death.