Mamise’s little body and her little soul were almost blasted by the enormity of her emotions. The ship was like a child too big for its mother, and the ending of the long travail left her wrecked.
She tried to enter into the hilarity of the guests, but she was filled with awe and prostrate as if a god had passed by.
The crowd began to trickle down the long steps to the feast in the mess hall. She dreaded the descent, the long walk, the sitting at table. She wanted to go home and cry very hard and be good and sick for a long while.
But she could not desert Davidge at such a time or mar his triumph by her hypochondria. She wavered as she climbed down. She rode with Davidge to the mess-hall in his car and forced herself to voice congratulations too solemn and too fervid for words.
The guests of honor sat at a table disguised with scenery as a ship’s deck. A thousand people sat at the other tables and took part in the banquet.
Mamise could not eat the food of human caterers. She had fed on honey-dew and drunk the milk of paradise.
She lived through the long procession of dishes and heard some of the oratory, the glowing praises of Davidge and Uncle Sam, Mr. Schwab, Mr. Hurley, President Wilson, the Allies, and everybody else. She heard it proclaimed that America was going back to the sea, so long neglected. The prodigal was returning home.
Mamise could think of nothing but a wish to be in bed. The room began to blur. People’s faces went out of focus. Her teeth began to chatter. Her jaw worked ridiculously like a riveting-gun. She was furious at it.
She heard Davidge whispering: “What’s the matter, honey? You’re ill again.”
“I––I fancy––I––I guess I––I––am,” she faltered.