But the sand-dabs
were delicious; and from the queer window near her table--a window cut in
the ship's side--she could see the Pacific, blue in distance, green where
it tossed white foam-blossoms on a beach of gold.
"Breakdowns would be fun if I'd some one to laugh at them with me," she
thought; and her mind conjured up the image of Nick Hilliard, seating him
opposite her at the little table.
She had ordered him home and he had apparently obeyed; which seemed unkind
and poor-spirited, and altogether unlike him. Ever until now he had been
at hand to save her from all that was disagreeable. Even at Los Angeles he
had jumped off the train to circumvent Mr. Millard. His ways had been like
the ways of story-book heroes, who, by some extraordinary coincidence,
invariably appear in time to rescue the heroine from a villain, a mad
bull, a runaway horse or a burning house. The only difference was that Mr.
Hilliard could not possibly be the hero of this story, and his opportune
arrival was, on his own confession, never a coincidence. He came on
purpose; and that was bad taste. But as he had done it so often, why
couldn't he have transgressed just once again, to rescue her from Sealman?
She thought of the tall forest creature with yearnings, which interfered
with her appetite for sand-dabs.
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