"Now don't monkey with the eyebrows--please! It gives me the willies... I merely mean to point out, to-day's the day you promised to come through with the awful decision. And there's no use waiting for Monk to join us; he's too much worried about his nice little ship. Tell mademoiselle and me now."
Lanyard shook his head, smiling. "But the time I set was when we made our landfall."
"Well, what's the matter with Martha's Vineyard over there? You could see if it was a clear day."
"But it is not a clear day."
"Suppose it gets thicker, a sure-enough fog? We may not see land before midnight."
"Then till midnight we must wait. No, Monsieur Phinuit, I will not be hurried. I have been thinking, I am still thinking, and there is still much to be said before I can come to any decision that will be fair to you, mademoiselle, the captain on the one hand, myself on the other."
"But at midnight, if the skipper's promise holds good, we'll be going ashore."
"The objection is well taken. My answer will be communicated when we see land or at eleven o'clock to-night, whichever is the earlier event."
Some further effort at either persuasion or impudence--nobody but Phinuit ever knew which--was drowned out by the first heart-broken bellow of the whistle sounding the fog signal.
Liane Delorme bounded out of her chair, clapping hands to ears, and uttered an unheard cry of protest; and when, the noise suspending temporarily, she learned that it was to be repeated at intervals of two minutes as long as the fog lasted and the yacht was under way, she flung up piteous hands to an uncompassionate heaven and fled to her stateroom, slamming the door as if she thought thereby to shut out the offending din.