"Why," he said, with his beguiling kindliness, "you mustn't look as if you were afraid of me."
She moved a little, to escape his eyes.
"No," she said, in a low tone, "I don't mean to be afraid. But I am."
"What of, Rose?"
She wanted to say, from her confused suspicions, that he was inevitably contemplating some course that would involve her freedom. But he had turned, and was looking at her in a smiling candor. There was evidently no more guile in him than in the impartial and cherishing sun.
"I wish life didn't present itself to you as a melodrama," he volunteered, with almost a brightness of reproach.
She shook her head. The tremulous expectancy of her face remained unchanged.
"I wish so, too," she answered.
"Well!" He spoke robustly, with a quick decision. "I'm going back. I shall sail next week."
She drew a quick breath. Ready as she was to disbelieve him, it was impossible to deny herself an unreasonable relief. She held herself rigid with anticipation, knowing what the next words would be, and how he would command or entreat her also to go. But they amazed her.