She stood beside him so tall and fair, so serenely invested with the flawless dignity of her womanhood that he no longer thought of the incongruity of her grotesque garb.
"You've been up there?" he asked, far too keenly interested to scorn the self-evident.
She gave a comprehensive gesture, embracing the visible prospect. "All over.... When I woke, I thought surely ... I went to see, found nothing living except the sheep and some chickens and turkeys in the farmyard. Those nearer buildings—nothing there except desolation, ruin, and the smell of last year's fish. I think fishermen camp out here at times. And the farm-house—apparently it's ordinarily inhabited. Evidently the people have gone away for a visit somewhere. It gives the impression of being a home the year round. There isn't any boat—"
"No boat!"
"Not a sign of one, that I can find—except this wreck." She indicated the cat-boat.
"But we can't do anything with this," he expostulated.
The deep, wide break in its side placed it beyond consideration, even if it should prove possible to remedy its many other lacks.
"No. The people who live here must have a boat—I saw a mooring-buoy out there"—with a gesture toward the water. "Of course. How else could they get away?"
"The question is, how we are to get away," he grumbled, morose.
"You'll find the way," she told him with quiet confidence.