For a good half-hour Claire sat with folded hands peering out from her room upon the damp hillside to the west.  From across the street came the bawdy thumping of a mechanical piano and the swish of a sluggish tide.  Her encounter with Sawyer Flint had forced the door of her virginal seclusion and thrust her at once into the primitive and elemental open.  She felt like one who was coming out of voluntary exile to the pathos of a deferred heritage.  Before her stretched the eagle’s horizon, but she had only the fledgling’s strength of wing.  She longed for the faith and courage and daring to take life at its word, longed with all the dangerous fierceness of one who had fed too long upon the husks of existence.  And, longing, she fell asleep, sitting in a chair before the open window, without thought or preparation....

* * * * *

The morning broke cloudless.  All traces of the night’s fury were obliterated as completely as sorrow from the face of a smiling child.  The sun touched the open spaces with a tender, caressing warmth, but the shadows held a keen-edged chill.

Claire decided upon an early boat to town.

“I’ll be less likely to meet any of the California Street crowd,” she said to herself, as she picked her brief way toward the ferry.

The boat was crowded, especially the lower cabin.  It was the artisans’ boat and the air was heavy with the smoke of pipe-tobacco.  Claire passed rapidly to the dining-room.  Perched upon the high revolving chairs surrounding a horseshoe counter, a score or more of soft-shirted men sat devouring huge greasy doughnuts and gulping coffee.  The steward, taking note of Claire’s hesitation, came forward and led her to a seat at one of the side tables.  She was about to take advantage of the chair which he had drawn out for her when she heard her name called.  She turned.  Miss Munch’s cousin, Mrs. Richards, was sitting alone at the table just behind.  Claire’s first feeling was one of relief—­she was glad to discover an acquaintance.  She thanked the steward for his trouble and abandoned the proffered seat for the one opposite Mrs. Richards.  Almost at once she regretted her impulsive decision.

“I didn’t know you intended staying at Flint’s all night,” Mrs. Richards began, fixing Claire with a challenging gaze.

“I didn’t intend to,” returned Claire, her voice sharpened slightly.

Mrs. Richards took the lid off the sugar-bowl and powdered her grapefruit sparingly.  “Have they a nice home?” she questioned.

“Yes, very nice.”

“They gave you an early start, didn’t they?...  It’s almost impossible to get servants these days to consider such a thing as serving breakfast much before eight o’clock.”

Claire glanced at the bill of fare.  Mrs. Richards’s tone was a trifle too eager.  “I suppose it is,” Claire assented, placing the menu-card back in its place between the vinegar and oil cruets.