ng.

"Don't you want to go?" March asked with an obscure resentment.

"I don't want to seem to go," she said, with the calm of those who have
logic on their side.

As she drove away with her husband she was not so sure of her
satisfaction in the feint she had arranged, though when she saw the
ghastly partings of people on board, she was glad she had not allowed
her son to come. She kept saying this to herself, and when they climbed
to the ship from the wharf, and found themselves in the crowd that
choked the saloons and promenades and passages and stairways and
landings, she said it more than once to her husband.

She heard weary elders pattering empty politenesses of farewell with
friends who had come to see them off, as they stood withdrawn in such
refuges as the ship's architecture afforded, or submitted to be pushed
and twirled about by the surging throng when they got in its way. She
pitied these in their affliction, which she perceived that they could
not lighten or shorten, but she had no patience with the young girls,
who broke into shrieks of nervous laughter at the coming of certain
young men, and kept laughing and beckoning till they made the young men
see them; and then stretched their hands to them and stood screaming and
shouting to them across the intervening heads and shoulders. Some girls,
of those whom no one had come to bid good-by, made themselves merry,
or at least noisy, by rushing off to the dining-room and looking at the
cards on the bouquets heaping the tables, to find whether any one had
sent them flowers. Others whom young men had brought bunches of violets
hid their noses in them, and dropped their fans and handkerchiefs and
card-cases, and thanked the young men for picking them up. Others,
had got places in the music-room, and sat there with open boxes of
long-stemmed roses in their laps, and talked up into the faces of the
men, with becoming lifts and slants of their eyes and chins. In the
midst of the turmoil children struggled against people's feet and knees,
and bewildered mothers flew at the ship's officers and battered them
with questions alien to their respective functions as they amiably
stifled about in their thick uniforms.

Sailors, slung over the ship's side on swinging seats, were placidly
smearing it with paint at that last moment; the bulwarks were thickly
set with the heads and arms of passengers who were making signs to
friends on shore, or calling messages to them that