The Lighted Match

Benton and Von Ritz went to the gangway, where the yachtsman bent

forward to give some direction to the boat crew below.

"Karyl!" The girl moved impulsively toward the man she must marry, and

laid a hand on his arm. "Karyl," she said plaintively, "if you only

wanted to marry me for State reasons--it would be different. It wouldn't

hurt me then to hurt you. You mean so much as a friend, but I can never

be in love with you. You are being unfair with yourself--if you go on. I

must be honest with you."

Pagratide spoke slowly, and his voice carried the tremor of feeling.

"You have always been honest with me, and I will make you love me. Until

you marry me I have no privilege to question you. When you do, I shall

not have to question you." He leaned forward and spoke confidently. "I

would marry you if you hated me--and then I would win your love!"

An hour later the Spanish gipsy girl, having shown herself in the

emptying ball-room with ingenious excuses for her long absence, took

refuge in her own apartments.

On sailing day, Benton, at the pier, watched the steamer stand out into

the river between the coming and going of ferry-boats and tugs. About

him stamped the usual farewell throng with hats raised and handkerchiefs

a-flutter. The music of the ship's band grew faint as a wider and wider

gap of water opened between the wharf and the liner's gray hull.

Gradually the crowd scattered back through the great barn-like spaces of

the pier-house to be re-absorbed by cabs, motors and surface-cars into

the main arteries of the city's life. It was over. Bon voyage had been

said. One more ship had put out to sea.

Benton stood looking after a slim figure in a blue traveling gown and

dark furs, pressed against the after-rail, her handkerchief waving in

the raw wind. Most of the sea-going ones had retreated into the shelter

of the saloon or cabin, but she remained.

Van Bristow, shivering at his friend's elbow, did not suggest turning

back.

Cara stood, still looking shoreward, a furrow between her brows, her

checks pale, her fingers tightly gripping the rail. She was holding with

that grip to all her shaken self-command.

She saw the fang-edged skyline of lower Manhattan lifting its gray

shafts through wet streamers of fog; she saw flotillas of squat

ferry-boats shouldering their ways against the sullen heave of the

river's tide-water; she heard the discordant shriek of their steam

throats; she saw the tilting swoop of a hundred gulls, buffeting the

wind; but she was conscious only of the vista of oily water widening

between herself and him.

Von Ritz had long since drifted into the smoking-room where the men were

christening the voyage with brandy-and-soda and dropping into tentative

groups, regardful of future poker games.