The Whirligig of Time

by Wayland Wells Williams

"Well, I will now, then!"

He did.

The next moment he rather wished he had not, Beatrice's slow smile of contemptuous tolerance made him feel like such a child.

"Tommy, it's only you, of course, so it really doesn't matter, but if you try to do that again I shall punish you."

Her power over him was as comforting to her as it was disconcerting to him. For a moment; after that she felt a pang of irritation. The idea of a married woman being kissed by a man not her husband was in itself rather revolting, and the thought that she was that married woman stung. As if that was not enough, the thought came to her that she could have stopped Tommy at any moment and had not. Had she not, in fact, secretly—even to herself—intended that he should do that very thing when they first sat down? She had used her power for contemptible ends. The thought that after all it was only poor ineffectual Tommy only increased her sense of degradation. All her pleasure had fled.

"Come along, Tommy," she said, rising; "it's time to go home."

It was indeed late—long after twelve. The launch, as she remembered it, was to make its last trip back to the yacht at half-past; they would be just in time. Tommy walked the length of the dock two or three times calling "Halcyone! Halcyone!" but there was no response from the already dwindling throng of launches. They sat down to wait, both moody and silent.

From the very first Beatrice suspected that they had been left. It was the natural sequence of the preceding episode; that was the way things happened. Her sense of disillusionment and irritation increased. The dancing had stopped, but the drinking continued; people were wandering or lying about the lawn in disgusting states of intoxication. What had been a joyous bacchanal had degenerated into a horrid saturnalia. Once, as they walked down to see if the launch had arrived, a man stumbled by them with a lewd remark. Beatrice remained on the verandah and made Tommy go down alone after that. His mournful "Halcyone!" floated up like the cry of a soul from Acheron.

By one o'clock or so it became obvious to everybody that they had been forgotten, and Beatrice instructed Tommy to hire any boat he could get to take them to the yacht. He had a long interview with the chief nautical employee of the hotel, who promised to see what he could do. That appeared to be singularly little. At last, with altered views of the American way of running things, Beatrice went down herself and talked to him. He would do what he could, but.... It was two o'clock; the dock was deserted.

Beatrice knew he would do nothing and bethought herself of the two rooms in the hotel that Aunt Cecilia had engaged. Her impression was that they were not being used to-night; their party was smaller than it had been the night before. She went to the hotel office and asked if there were some rooms engaged for Mrs. James Wimbourne and if they were already occupied. After some research it appeared that there were and they weren't. Well, Beatrice and Tommy would take them. The night clerk was interested. He understood the situation perfectly and refrained from commenting upon their lack of baggage.