"Oh no," she murmured. "I was just thinking what a splendid sight it will be. Everybody will be there, I suppose."
"Er—yes—I suppose so."
She lighted her third cigarette since the soup, and, rising from the table, drifted to the piano clamped to the walls of the drawing-room. Her mind was far off, and her fingers, left to themselves, stumbled through a disjointed chaos of melodies from nocturnes to tangos and back.
Willie stood it as long as he could, then his torment broke out in a cry more tragic than its words:
"For God's sake play something or quit."
She quit.
She walked to a porthole and stared out at the dark waves shuffling past like stampeding cattle.
He apologized at once. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I apologize."
"Oh, that's all right," she sighed, with doleful graciousness. But when he knelt by her and put his arm around her she slipped from his clasp and went out on the deck. He followed her. But neither of them spoke.
The moon on the sea spread a pathway of dancing white tiles. She wanted to run away, to step forth on that fantastic pavement and follow it out of the world.