Perhaps his heart was really touched, at least he was piqued by her elusiveness.
"You'll enjoy it," he pled, "the Schaufflers have planned a bang-up party. Everyone's going, and, besides, you've turned down every invitation I've given you."
"You ought to go—it's all nonsense, you're staying in like this," boomed the Captain's voice from the favourite rocker. "Your cheeks are gettin' as pale as the white-caps out yonder," and he tweaked them—a movement she hated, it was so forever putting her back in the category of a child.
"Yes," put in Aunt Abigail, from her own stiff-backed chair, "it's your duty to go."
Sally hadn't at all missed nor was she longing now for the attentions of Philip or any of the Salthaven young men, eligible or otherwise. For some reason Providence alone knows, women have a far better developed sense of spiritual nearness than men, and ever since that memorable night under the Light she was content, much of the time, with the invisible but very real companionship of her wandering sweetheart.
But—well—maybe she hadn't been quite fair to Phil anyway she didn't want another row, so she accepted.
Promptly at eight on the night of the thirtieth of October, for "Home Sweet Home" always strikes up at eleven at all Salthaven affairs, only smugglers or doctors and storks being about later than that hour, the Schauffler's Maggie ushered Sally—"Ladies to the right, Gen'lemen to the left"—into the guest-room.
A moment, like the sea-birds she preened herself, for even
