“Well!” gasped Cynthia. “_Well!_” Nancy echoed her. “My good gosh, Cynthia, that was a close call!” The buttercup girl rose first, stood for a long moment at the window looking out. “Look here ...” she said at last, seemed to have trouble with her voice and spoke again, “Come here, you two.” It was the first they had heard her speak. Cynthia who had by now slightly recovered her breath, felt that her knees would bear her again. But when she looked out she nearly lost what breath she had gained. “Nancy ... oh _Nancy!_” From base of rock to farthest horizon the sea rushed, tumbling, foaming, stealthily rising, rising. Ten minutes later and they would have been engulfed in it, even five minutes later and the quicksands, forerunner of the rush of waves, would have caught them. “They say it rises sixteen feet every tide.” Nancy’s voice was shaking. The best thing that could have happened was the entrance of Mrs. Brewster. Having heard Madame’s story at the desk she immediately took cheerful charge of the situation. “We’ll have lunch here in the room,” she suggested. “I’ll order anything you like, and then all three of you had better lie down for an hour. This is Miss ...?” “Comstock, Betsey Comstock,” murmured the buttercup girl. Cynthia, endeavoring to follow Mrs. Brewster’s cheerful lead, asked if the hotel couldn’t serve some _escargots_, snails. She had heard they were good, and she said she felt in a mood to experiment. Actually not even snails for lunch seem very reckless after their recent experience. Betsey still seemed a little dazed but Nancy had several wildly fantastic suggestions and Mrs. Brewster rang for the waiter, ordered lunch to be brought to their room. They had scarcely sat down to eat when a knock sounded imperatively on the door. As Mrs. Brewster answered it Cynthia saw beyond her shoulder a man’s face, distraught and white. “Oh, Madame,” he cried. “Is Miss ... I was told ... that is. ...” “Robert!” Betsey Comstock had rushed past Mrs. Brewster, and flung herself into the young man’s arms. Smiling, Mrs. Brewster discreetly closed the door, but murmurs and soft voices as though in reconciliation sounded beyond it. The girls were half way through lunch when Betsey, such a changed Betsey, all smiles and radiance, reappeared. “Apologies, please,” she begged charmingly. “Robert had a luncheon engagement with a man he met here at the hotel, an architect. So I did not ask him in. But the rest, I’d like to explain.” To Cynthia it sounded very romantic, a young Basque, Yberri was the name, educated in America for his career of architecture and Betsey, now engaged to be married to him, with her own career as a costume designer. What could be nicer? “Who do you work for?” asked the practical Nancy. “Have you sold anything yet?” “I had my first act in Cochran’s Revue, the recent one, in London.” “Oh! Moms and I saw that. Did you see the lovely ballet with the Chinese pagodas on their heads?”