"Weren't there any interesting people?" asked the one who was a girl.
"Very nice people," said Mathilda primly. "There was Doctor Phillips and his wife. He is a clergyman. There were Mr. and Mrs. Stevens—"
"No men?"
"Oh, yes."
"Young men?"
"N-no," said Mathilda. "At least not younger than about forty." Mr. Boyleston had been forty. He had only one eye, but better not say so.
"No natives?"
"Of course there were natives" said Mathilda. "Although we didn't see very much of them."
Something eager was dying out of their faces. They were giving her up. All except the red-haired man, who still watched her face as if he were searching for signs.
"But finally you got a ship, huh?"
"Yes, finally we did" she said brightly. "It took us to Buenos Aires."
"That message gave the whole country a thrill. In fact, you made Page One."
Mathilda smiled politely and moistened her lips. Was it thrilling to Oliver? she wondered with the familiar sickening lurch of her heart.
"There was a chance to fly to Bermuda, and I took it," she said, "because I have a house there and people knew me." She glanced down at her suit. Better not go into the ragged crew they'd been.
"Did you have any money, Miss Frazier?"
"People were very kind," she said evasively. She kept smiling. Don't boast. Better not let them know that the mere rumor of her wealth had inspired enough kindness to bring them home.
"What do you plan to do now?"
"I must get home," she said. Was Oliver there? Was Althea there? Mustn't ask.
"To Dedham, you mean, of course? To Mr. Grandison s house? He broadcast a piece about you," said the female one chattily.
"'Tyl, dear, wherever you may be—' He had me bawling."
Mathilda's eyes stung. Don't give them an emotion, even a good one. She swallowed.
"I'll bet you're glad to be back," said the red-haired man, not perfunctorily, but as if he alone knew why.
"Yes, I am. Very glad indeed." Her green eyes met his steadily. You can end any interview after a decent passage of time.
"It must have been quite an adventure," said the female one a little flatly, as if she doubted it.
"Yes," said Mathilda. "I really think that's about all I can tell you. If you'll excuse me. Thank you for being so kind.” Always thank them.
"Well, thank you." “Thanks a lot." They were through with her. They made as if to withdraw, all but the red-haired man, who drew closer.
"Why are you using your maiden name?" he said in a low, conversational tone.
Mathilda caught hold of her surprise and alarm and controlled it. Just her lashes flickered. "I beg your pardon?" she murmured. She took a step away. She was afraid, if he got too close, the emotional tension she was hiding so carefully would be palpable, like a
magnetic field.
"He's waiting for you on the pier," said the red-haired man.
"Who?" She hadn't meant to ask. Mustn't get involved. This was the press. Never converse. Recite.
“Your husband," said the red-haired man.
Mathilda didn't move, didn't say anything. It took all her training to stand so still. The thought of Oliver broke through and flooded her whole mind. Could it be Oliver who was waiting at the pier?
By some miracle, restored to her? As if Althea had never so easily, so almost lazily, reached out and taken him away? Her heart pounded.
"All I'm asking is: Do you confirm it or deny?" said the red-haired man in a rapid mutter. "How about it, Mrs. Howard? Can I take that blush—"
Mathilda said, "If you'll excuse me, please." She looked full at him, although she couldn't see his face. She could feel her lips mechanically smiling.
"What goes on?" said the female one, abruptly popping up beside them.
The red-haired man was sending Mathilda a hurt, reproachful look, but she didn't see it. She said again, still smiling, "Won't you please excuse me now?"
"O.K." said the red-haired man. "O.K." But he said it as if he were saying, "All right for you."
Mathilda went and sat quietly in a corner of the deck. "Such a nice, quiet girl," Mrs. Stevens had told the reporters. "Such a little lady. Why, not the least bit conscious of all that money. We have become very close friends," said Mrs. Stevens, with plenty of con-
sciousness of all that money.
So the Stevenses came and fluttered around her, all talking at once, promising to look her up, never to forget her, begging her to promise them the same. Mathilda kept promising.
But the whole thing was back now in full force. Just as strong as if she'd never been shipwrecked and carried away to Africa, half the world away. She could see, bitterly, Oliver's face as it had been two days before their wedding day, when he had come in and been so strangely silent. She had babbled innocently along, happily, naively, all unwarned, unprepared, about who had sent what present, about such silly little things. And at last, when she'd stopped the chatter, puzzled, he'd said, “Tyl, are you happy?" And she'd been so startled. The whole thing had caught her in the throat She'd finally answered in the extravagant language she never naturally used, simply because it meant too much; she couldn't answer him otherwise. She'd turned her back and cried, "Darling, of course, I'm just about out of my mind with happiness! Aren't you?"
He'd said, "Well, don't worry," in that flat blunt voice that wasn't like Oliver at all. And when, in surprise, she'd turned around, he'd been gone. Gone.
Nor had she, even then, understood anything. How dumb! How could she have been so dumb? Stupid. Blind. Dumb. Did she crack wise? Oh, no, not she! Not dumb-bunny Mathilda, the ugly duckling with all the money.
Grandy'd had to take her aside into his study that night, with only one dim light, she remembered. Sitting beside her in the shadows, he'd told her in his gentlest voice, "Tyl, darling, I think this belated honesty of Oliver's is lucky for you. Oh, I realize that you
won't see beyond the surface humiliation and it's true. Oliver ought to have told you more directly. Poor duckling. But this superficial blow to your pride is nothing, nothing. You must believe me. Someday you will know that this is right. Someday you will know that
Oliver, however clumsily he's done it, hasn't really done you wrong."
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But Oliver was lost and there was a whole structure of dream and plan that tumbled down. And she had to learn all over again to be alone. And why did it have to be Althea? Damn her. Oh, damn her.
All her remembered life, Althea had been there with that power to take away. Never had Tyl had a glow, a hint of success, of happiness, that Althea hadn't somehow been able to dim it or put it out. Poor penniless Althea, who was so beautiful. Tyl ground her teeth.
"Nor must you blame Althea," Grandy'd said. "You must be charitable, my dear. She was in love."
“I know," she'd answered with a proud tolerance, biting back the cry, But so was I! But so was I! And still, in April, her heart was crying. But so was I!
"Won't it be wonderful to see all our friends?" sighed Mrs. Stevens. "Just think; any minute. Won't you come around to the other side, Miss Frazier, dear?"