Yorke took out his pouch, and flung it with dextrous aim into the old man's lap. He took it up, glowered at the donor for a moment, then nodded surlily, and, filling his pipe, pitched the pouch back.
"We still live!" said Yorke, and he was about to fill his own pipe, but remembered himself and stopped.
"Please smoke if you wish to," said Leslie, "I do not mind. We must not go far," she added.
"Not farther than Quebec or, say, Boulogne," said Yorke. "All right, Miss Lisle, we'll turn directly you say so. How delightful this is! I may have been happier in the course of an ill-spent life, but I don't remember it. Are you sorry you came? Please answer truthfully, and don't mind my feelings."
But Leslie did not answer. The strange feeling which had haunted her as she left the house was growing more distinct and defiant, stronger and more aggressive. Was it really she, Leslie Lisle, who was sailing over the moonlit sea with this careless and light-hearted young man, or should she wake presently in her tiny room in Sea View and find it all a dream?
Happy? Was this novel sensation, as of some vague undefined joy, happiness or what?
She was wise to leave the question unanswered!
Yorke smoked in silence for a minute or two, then he turned on his elbow so that he could look up at her.
"Miss Lisle," he said, "were you looking for something when you came down the beach just now? I ask because I thought you looked rather troubled——."
"But you were asleep!" said Leslie.