XVII
Mary's one thought was to escape and hide herself from every one. She
felt as fastidious women feel after a journey through miles of thick
black dust, when they cannot bear to have their faces seen with the
disfiguring stains of travel upon them. But she had to go back to the
deck where people were dancing, before she could find her way to any
hiding place; and even then she did not know how she should contrive to
leave the yacht without answering questions and fighting objections.
She was thankful to find Captain Hannaford not dancing, and standing
near the foot of the steps she had just descended. He was some one she
knew, at least, some one whose calm manner made him seem dependable.
Then, too, the physical affliction which repelled her, in making him
appear remote from the world of fortunate men, almost attracted her at
this moment. Standing there as if waiting for her, very quiet,
apparently quite unemotional, he was like a lifeboat in a merciless sea.
She snatched at the help he silently offered.
"I feel ill," she said, chokingly. "Do you think I could get away
without any one noticing? I want to go home."
Instinctively she was sure that she might count upon him to serve her,
that he would rather do so than stay and watch the dancing, for he
himself did not dance.
"Come along," he said, with the calmness which was never ruffled.
"People will think you're engaged to sit out this dance with me. Get
your wraps, and I'll see that the launch is ready to take you across to
the slip.
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