The crowd was returning down the pier by this time, like a black river running in the darkness and rumbling over rugged stones, and I heard their voices as they passed the car.
One voice—a female voice—said:
"Well, what do you think of our Martin Conrad?"
And then another voice—a male voice—answered:
"By God he's a Man!"
Within a few minutes the pier was deserted, and the chauffeur was saying:
"Home, my lady?"
"Home," I answered.
Seeing Martin off had been too much like watching the lifeboat on a dark and stormy night, when the lights dip behind a monstrous wave and for some breathless moments you fear they will never rise.
But as we drove up the head I caught the lights of the steamer again now far out at sea, and well I knew that as surely as my Martin was there he was thinking of me and looking back towards the house in which he had left me behind him.