At length the dawn broke—not a pale grey, as Peter had hoped for, but with far-flung lances of vivid scarlet. That indicated rain and wind before the day was done.
There was a movement of the canvas awning, and, somewhat to Peter's surprise, Miss Baird emerged cautiously, crawling, since there was no other means of negotiating the narrow gap that served as a door.
She was bareheaded, her hair trailing over her shoulders in two long plaits. The outward and visible signs of her costume consisted of a yellow oilskin. Silhouetted against the red glow of the sky she looked as if she were outlined in deep gold.
"Good morning, Miss Baird," observed Peter politely. "You're out early."
"I simply couldn't sleep any longer," replied the girl. "I hope you don't mind my intruding upon you? What a glorious sunrise."
"From an artistic point, yes," agreed Mostyn. "But I'm afraid we'll get it before very long."
"She's a safe boat," said Olive with conviction. "She isn't exactly a yacht, but, personally, I'm rather enjoying it."
"Even on short rations?" inquired Peter.
"Up to the present, yes," was the reply. "It's rather a novelty being served out with biscuits, but I'm not looking forward to the sun-dried herrings."
"Perhaps," said Peter, producing the box of Turkish delight, "these will prove a welcome substitute for the herrings. No, don't thank me. Preston's the fellow."