She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. His brows drew a little nearer together. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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