"Water spots some grays" said Mrs. Rayne with a strange sort of smile as Rhoda went out, "especially salt water. I spent one night at sea in an open boat, with a gray dress clinging wet and salt to my limbs. When I tore it off in rags I seemed to shed all the misery I had ever known. All my life since then has been bright as you see it now. It would be a bad omen to put on a gray gown again."
"Then you have made a sea-voyage, Mrs. Rayne?"
"Yes, such a long voyage!—worse than the 'Ancient Mariner's.' No words can tell how I hate the sea." She sighed deeply, with a sudden darkening of her gray eyes till they were almost black, and grasped one wrist hard with the other hand.
A sudden trembling seized me. I was almost as much agitated as Mrs. Rayne. I felt that I must clinch the matter somehow, but I took refuge in a platitude to gain time: "There is such a difference in ships, almost as much as in houses, and the comfort of the voyage depends greatly on that."
"It may be so," she said wearily.
"My brother's ship is old, but it has been refitted lately to something like comfort. It's old name was the Sapphire."
This was my shot, and it hit hard.
"The Sapphire! the Sapphire!" she whispered with dilated eyes. "Did you ever hear—did you ever find—But what nonsense! You must think me the absurdest of women."
The color came back to her face, and she laughed quite naturally.
"The fact is, Miss Blake, I was very ill and miserable when I was on shipboard, and to this day any sudden reminder of it gives me a shock.—Did water spot it?" she said to Rhoda, who came in at this point.