But it was not pure joy that sparkled in his eyes.
"Dear Percival! I am glad to see you, so glad to know that you are safe."
"You were sorry when you heard——"
"Oh," she said, "sorry is not the word. I could not forgive myself! I can never thank God enough that we have found you."
"Yes," said he, in a low tone. "I think you are glad that I am safe. I don't deserve that you should be, but——Well, never mind all that. Won't you give me one kiss, Elizabeth, my darling?" Then, in a more cheerful voice, "Come and see this wretched hole in which we have passed the last four months. It is an interesting place."
"Oh, Percival, it is just like yourself to say so!" said Elizabeth, smiling, but with tearful eyes. "And how pale and thin you are."
"You should have seen me a couple of months ago. I was a skeleton then," said Percival, as he opened the door for her. "A shell-fish diet is not one which I should recommend to an invalid."
He was conscious of a question in her eyes which he did not mean to answer: he even found time to whisper a word to Jackson before they got into the boat. "Not a word about Luttrell," he whispered. "Say it was a steerage passenger who gave his name as Mackay. And don't say anything unless they ask you point blank." Jackson stared, but nodded an assent. He had a good deal of faith in Mr. Heron's wisdom.
Pale and gaunt as Percival undoubtedly was, Elizabeth thought that he looked very like his old self, as he stood frowning and biting his moustache in the bows, and looking shorewards as though he were afraid of something that he might see. This familiar expression—something between anxiety and annoyance—made Elizabeth smile to herself in spite of her agitation. Percival was not much changed.
She was sitting near him, and she longed to ask the question which was uppermost in her mind; but it was a difficult question to ask, seeing that he did not mention Brian Luttrell of his own accord. With an effort that made her turn pale, she bent forward at last, and said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him:—