It never occurred to me to see any connection between the presence of Diana Thorpe aboard my boat and the intense antipathy shown by Hildegarde to coming aboard.
Then a strange thing occurred.
Hildegarde, as if possessed of a sudden overpowering notion, suddenly veiled her face behind a flimsy web that had apparently been fastened to her hat.
This act surprised me.
Evidently, she did not care to be immediately recognized—she knew who leaned over the rail, her elegant figure outlined against the lights beyond.
I was too dizzy to understand why she should do this thing; I can remember that it struck me as queer, and yet, at the same time, I was not unwilling to humor her caprice, and keep her secret for a little time.
At least, I would be better able to wrestle with it when I got rid of this awful ringing in my head, and could ponder upon it rationally. She had some reason, that was evident.
At last we were alongside.
Robbins lifted Carmencita up, and willing hands helped her on deck.
Hildegarde neatly avoided my proffered assistance, and allowed the mate to help her, which caused me to bite my lips in chagrin.