The boat for Los Angeles was unusually crowded that night. For either
this reason, or some other she would not acknowledge, Miss Hastings
found herself pushed aside by more impatient passengers every time she
attempted to enter the gangway.
"All aboard!" called a peremptory voice from somewhere on deck. She took
a step forward, hesitated, drew back. The plank was hauled irrevocably
away, and she turned to face Blair standing just behind her on the
wharf.
"I was sure you wouldn't run away," he declared, "but if you had - !"
She let him lead her back along the broad boardwalk toward the hotel
until they stood within the shadow of the huge boulder which for
centuries has marked the outer boundary of the Bay of Moons. Beyond them
the lights of the St. Catherine glimmered down the hill and on over the
water, rimming with golden bubbles the outlines of the pier.
"Wildenai!" Out of the darkness his voice came to her, mocking, tender,
wholly insistent. "Foolish, obstinate little lady! Can't you see how
it's up to you, - up to the English to make amends? Honestly now, when
he began it I don't imagine even that rascal Drake himself would have
believed a family scrap could last the better part of four centuries.
Don't you really think it's about time for you to call it off?"
And flinging her scruples to the winds, Miss Hastings suddenly decided
that it was.
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