avity had
in it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were
still looking at each other she declared:

"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am
here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!"

"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze
became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it
was not of death that you were afraid."

She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:

"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to
blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I
wonder now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle
which..."

She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with
feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a
moment the very picture of remorse and shame.

"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And
surely you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter,
I understand."

She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He
was a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white
hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers,
talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now...

She remained silent for a while.

"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked.

She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her
face.

"I don't know," she murmured.

I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All
this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And
she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake
her belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully
forlorn. It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I
remarked cheerfully:

"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see
you."

"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing herself. "I had
nothing to do. So I came out."

I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end
of the town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere
thought of it oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her
chance confidant.

"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the time myself
yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was
going