This was their first misunderstanding, but Jefferson said nothing.  He could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him all night.  Soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety.  Jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but Mrs. Blake was tired and Shirley, now quite irritated at what she considered Jefferson’s unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly.  But she could never remain angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely: 

“Are you cross with me, Jeff?”

He turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn and grave.

“Cross—­no.  Good-night.  God bless you!” he said, hoarsely gulping down a lump that rose in his throat.  Then grasping her hand he hurried away.

Completely mystified, Shirley and her companion turned to the office to get the key of their room.  As the man handed it to Shirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come.  She changed colour.  She did not like telegrams.  She always had a dread of them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news.  Could this, she thought, explain Jefferson’s strange behaviour?  Trembling, she tore open the envelope and read: 

  Come home at once,

  Mother.

CHAPTER V.

Rolling, tumbling, splashing, foaming water as far as the eye could reach in every direction.  A desolate waste, full of life, movement and colour, extending to the bleak horizon and like a vast ploughed field cut up into long and high liquid ridges, all scurrying in one direction in serried ranks and with incredible speed as if pursued by a fearful and unseen enemy.  Serenely yet boisterously, gracefully yet resistlessly, the endless waves passed on—­some small, others monstrous, with fleecy white combs rushing down their green sides like toy Niagaras and with a seething, boiling sound as when flame touches water.  They went by in a stately, never ending procession, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, but full of dignity and importance, their breasts heaving with suppressed rage because there was nothing in their path that they might destroy.  The dancing, leaping water reflected every shade and tint—­now a rich green, then a deep blue and again a dirty gray as the sun hid for a moment behind a cloud, and as a gust of wind caught the top of the combers decapitating them at one mad rush, the spray was dashed high in the air, flashing out all the prismatic colours.  Here and yonder, the white caps rose, disappeared and came again, and the waves grew and then diminished in size.  Then others rose, towering, became larger, majestic, terrible; the milk-like comb rose proudly, soared a brief moment, then fell ignominiously, and the wave diminished passed on humiliated.  Over head, a few scattered cirrus clouds flitted lazily across the blue dome of heaven, while a dozen Mother Carey chickens screamed hoarsely as they circled in the air.  The strong and steady western breeze bore on its powerful pinions the sweet and eternal music of the wind and sea.