“Yes,” said Grace, from where she sat at her window, looking seaward, and waiting tremulously for her mother’s next question.
“Where is Mrs. Maynard?”
“She isn’t back, yet.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Breen, “he really did expect rough weather.”
“He must,” returned Grace, in a guilty whisper.
“It’s a pity,” remarked her mother, “that you made them go.”
“Yes.” She rose, and, stretching herself far out of the window, searched the inexorable expanse of sea. It had already darkened at the verge, and the sails of some fishing-craft flecked a livid wall with their white, but there was no small boat in sight.
“If anything happened to them,” her mother continued, “I should feel terribly for you.”
“I should feel terribly for myself,” Grace responded, with her eyes still seaward.
“Where do you think they went?”