“Bon voyage!”
That was all. She sat down at the table, gathered a bunch of the flowers in her hands, and buried her flushed face in them.
“Oh!” she cried, and then she burst into tears. “Bon voyage! bon voyage! From you—dear, dear, dear Wynn! I know. I understand. I have known and understood for years. I shall know and understand—always!”
The signal for leaving had sounded. She felt the ponderous throb of the ship under her. She dried her eyes and walked out on the deck. Her husband came to meet her. He took her arm, and they leaned over the railing and looked down into the multitude of waving hats and handkerchiefs.
“Who sent the flowers, darling?” Galt asked.
“There was no name attached,” she answered. “Look, Kenneth! Lionel is trying to climb the railing—don't let him!”
Galt hurried away to do her bidding, and she gazed down into the water, which was being churned into white foam.
“Bon voyage!” she said, bitterly. “Bon voyage!”