"I'm safe," called a merry voice from the topmost stair.
Marcia came back into the kitchen. She finished preparing the lobster, straightened the silver on the table, let in Prince Hal who came bounding to her side, picked a few dead blossoms from the geraniums, and sat down to wait.
Ten minutes passed!
Fifteen!
Half an hour went by.
She fidgeted and stooped to pat the setter. Then she went to the window. Slowly the fog was lifting. It hung like a filmy curtain, its frayed edges receding from a dull steel-blue sea and through it she could discern the irregular sweep of the channel and the shore opposite where dimly outlined stood the spired church and the huddle of houses clustered like wraiths about the curving margin of the bay.
Yes, it was clearing.
The tide had turned and a breeze sprung up.
By afternoon the weather would be fine—just the right sort to get the boat off. She would go up the beach and watch the men while they worked. The house was close. She longed for air and the big reaches of the out-of-doors.