Her feelings were assuredly complex, and they grew more complex when the sense of danger began to dominate them.  The sense of danger came to her out of the demeanour of her companions and out of the swift appearance on deck of every member of the crew, including the parlourmaid, and including three men who were incompletely clothed.  The yacht was no longer a floating hotel, automobile and dancing-saloon; it was a stranded wreck.  Not a passenger on board knew whether the tide was making or ebbing, but, secretly, all were convinced that it was ebbing and that they would be left on the treacherous sand and ultimately swallowed up therein, even if a storm did not supervene and smash the craft to bits in the classical manner.  The skipper’s words about the bones of many a good yacht had escaped no ear.

Further, not a passenger knew where the yacht was or whither, exactly, she was bound or whether the glass was rising or falling, for guests on yachts seldom concern themselves about details.  Of course, signals might be made to passing ships, but signals were often, according to maritime history, unheeded, and the ocean was very large and empty, though it was only the German Ocean....  Musa was nervous and angry.  Audrey knew from her intimate knowledge of him that he was angry and she wondered why he should be angry.  Madame Piriac, on the other hand, was entirely calm.  Her calmness seemed to say to those responsible, and even to the not-responsible passenger:  “You got me into this and it is inconceivable that you should not get me out of it.  I have always been looked after and protected, and I must be looked after and protected now.  I absolutely decline to be worried.”  But Miss Thompkins was worried, she was very seriously alarmed; fear was in her face.

“I do think it’s a shame!” she broke out almost loudly, in a trembling voice, to Audrey.  “I do think it’s a shame you should go flirting with poor Mr. Gilman when he’s steering.”  And she meant all she said.

“Me flirting!” Audrey exclaimed, passionately resentful.

Withal, the sense of danger continued to increase.  Still there were the boats.  There were the motor-launch, the cutter and the dinghy.  The sea was—­for the present—­calm and the moon encouraging.

“Lower the dinghy there and look lively now!” cried the captain.

This command more than ever frightened all the passengers who, in their nervousness and alarm, had tried to pretend to themselves that nervousness and alarm were absurd, and that first-class yachts never did, and could not, get wrecked.  The command was a thunderstroke.  It proved that the danger was immediate and intense.  And the thought of all the beautiful food and drink on board, and all the soft cushions and the electric hair-curlers and the hot-water supply and the ice gave no consolation whatever.  The idea of the futility and wickedness of luxury desolated the guests and made them austere, and yet even in that moment they speculated upon what goods they might take with them.