On the second day after the Clara set forth on the ocean Marie Louise took dictation for an hour and wrote out her letters as fast as she could. In the afternoon she took the typewritten transcripts into Davidge’s office to drop them into his “in” basket.
The telephone rang. His hand went out to it, and she heard him say:
“Mr. Davidge speaking.... Hello, Ed.... What? You’re too close to the ’phone.... That’s better.... You’re too far away––start all over.... I don’t get that.... Yes––a life-boat picked up with what––oh, six survivors. Yes––from what ship? I say, six survivors from what ship?... The Clara? She’s gone? Clara?”
He reeled and wavered in his chair. “What happened––many lost? And the boat––cargo––everything––everybody but those six! They got her, then! The Germans got her––on her first voyage! God damn their guts! Good-by, Ed.”
He seemed to be calm, but the hand that held up the 197 receiver groped for the hook with a pitiful blind man’s gesture.
Mamise could not resist that blundering helplessness. She ran forward and took his hand and set the receiver in place.
He was too numb to thank her, but he was grateful. His mother was dead. The ship he had named for her was dead. He needed mothering.
Mamise put her hands on his shoulders and gripped them as if to hold them together under their burden. She said:
“I heard. I can’t tell you how–– Oh, what can we do in such a world!”
He laughed foolishly and said, with a stumbling voice: