When he was gone Mrs. De Peyster lay wordless, limp, all a-shiver. Beside her sat the limp and voiceless Matilda, gasping and staring wildly. How long Mrs. De Peyster lay in that condition she never knew. All her faculties were reeling. These crowding events seemed the wildest series of unrealities; seemed the frenzied, feverish phantasms of a nightmare. They never, never could possibly-have happened!
But then ... they had happened! And this hard, narrow bed was real. And this low, narrow room was real. And Mr. Pyecroft was real. And so were Jack, and Mary, and Judge Harvey.
These things could never have happened. But, then, they had. And would they ever, ever stop happening?
This was only the eighth day since her promulgated sailing. Three more months, ninety days of twenty-four hours each, before Olivetta—
"Matilda," she burst out in a despairing whisper, "I can't stand this another minute!"
"Oh, ma'am!" wailed Matilda.
"That Mr. Pyecroft—" Words failed her. "I've simply got to get out of this somehow!"
"Of course, ma'am. But—but our changes haven't helped us much yet. If we tried to leave the house, that Mr. Pyecroft might follow and we might find ourselves even in a worse way than we are, ma'am."
"Nothing can be worse than this!"