“Why, Miss Robson, who would think of seeing you here at this hour!”

Claire turned and discovered Miss Munch’s cousin sitting beside her, intent on the inevitable tatting.

“Oh, Mrs. Richards, how stupid of me!  Have you been here long?”

“About ten minutes.  But I get so interested in my work I never have eyes for anything else.  How do you put in the time?  A trip like this is so tiresome!”

Claire delved into her bag and brought out knitting-needles and an unfinished sock.

“I’m trying a hand at this,” she admitted, holding her handiwork up ruefully.  “But I’m afraid I’m not very skilful.”

Mrs. Richards inspected the sock with critical disapproval.

“Oh, well,” she encouraged, “you’ll learn ... practice makes perfect.  I’ve just finished a half-dozen pairs.  I suppose I’m laying myself out for a roast doing tatting in public these war days!  But it’s restful and I’m not one to pretend.  As long as my conscience is clear I can afford to be perfectly independent....  You don’t make this trip every night, do you?”

“Oh my, no!  I’m going over to Mr. Flint’s to take some dictation.  He’s home sick.”

“I saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming off the boat just as I got on.”  Mrs. Richards’s voice took on a tone of casual directness.

“You know Mrs. Flint?”

“My dear girl, a trained nurse knows everybody—­and everything about them, too.  You never get a real line on people until you live with them.  I’ve never nursed any of the Flint family, but I wouldn’t have to to get their reputation—­or perhaps I should say, old Flint’s.”

“Old Flint’s?” echoed Claire.

“Well, of course he isn’t so awfully old, but men like him always give that impression.  They’re so awfully wise—­about some things.  I was so relieved when Gertie didn’t get that dreadful Miss Whitehead’s place.  Being in the general office is bad enough, but in his private office....”  Mrs. Richards lifted and dropped her tatting-filled hands significantly.

Claire felt the blood rush to her face.  “I’m in the private office, Mrs. Richards....  No doubt you forgot it.”

“Well now, you know I had ... for the moment.  But with a girl like you it’s different.  Some women can handle men, but Gertie would be so helpless!”

The humor of Mrs. Richards’s remark saved the situation for Claire.  She changed the subject deliberately.  But somehow, with the conversation forced from the particular to the general, Miss Munch’s cousin lost interest, and by the time the boat had passed Alcatraz Island Claire was deep in her thoughts again and the other woman following the measured flight of the tatting-shuttle with strained attention.

The boat was romping through the stiff sea like a playful porpoise, dipping and plunging.  A half-score of adventuresome gulls were still following in the foam-churned wake.  In the face of all the pitching about, Mrs. Richards had quite a battle to direct her shuttle to any efficient purpose, and Claire was almost amused at the grim determination she brought to the performance.