“Wise to dope like that!” Susan could have risen up and slapped him, in the darkness.  She could have burst into frantic tears; she would gladly have felt the boat sinking—­sinking to hide her shame and his contempt for her under the friendly, quiet water.

For long years the memory of that trip home from Sausalito, the boat, the warm and dusty ferry-place, the jerking cable-car, the grimy, wilted street, remained vivid and terrible in her memory.

She found herself in her room, talking to the aroused Mary Lou.  She found herself in bed, her heart beating fast, her eyes wide and bright.  Susan meant to stop thinking of what could not be helped, and get to sleep at once.

The hours went by, still she lay wakeful and sick at heart.  She turned and tossed, sighed, buried her face in her pillow, turned and tossed again.  Shame shook her, worried her in dreams, agonized her when she was awake.  Susan felt as if she would lose her mind in the endless hours of this terrible night.

There was a little hint of dawn in the sky when she crept wearily over Mary Lou’s slumbering form.

“Ha!  What is it?” asked Mary Lou.

“It’s early—­I’m going out—­my head aches!” Susan said.  Mary Lou sank back gratefully, and Susan dressed in the dim light.  She crept downstairs, and went noiselessly out into the chilly street.

Her head ached, and her skin felt dry and hot.  She took an early car for North Beach, sat mute and chilled on the dummy until she reached the terminal, and walked blindly down to the water.  Little waves shifted wet pebbles on the shore, a cool wind sighed high above her.

Susan found a sheltered niche among piles of lumber—­and sat staring dully ahead of her.  The water was dark, but the fog was slowly lifting, to show barges at anchor, and empty rowboats rocking by the pier.  The tide was low, piles closely covered with shining black barnacles rose lank from the water; odorous webs of green seaweed draped the wooden cross-bars and rusty iron cleats of the dock.

Susan remembered the beaches she had known in her childhood, when, a small skipping person, she had run ahead of her father and mother, wet her shoes in the sinking watery sand, and curved away from the path of the waves in obedience to her mother’s voice.  She remembered walks home beside the roaring water, with the wind whistling in her ears, the sunset full in her eyes, her tired little arms hooked in the arms of the parents who shouted and laughed at each other over the noisy elements.

“My good, dear, hungry, little, tired Mouse!” her mother had called her, in the blissful hour of supper and warmth and peace that followed.

Her mother had always been good—­her father good.  Every one was good,—­even impractical, absurd Mary Lou, and homely Lydia Lord, and little Miss Sherman at the office, with her cold red hands, and her hungry eyes,—­every one was good, except Susan.