Her insatiable appetite for beauty had brought Cara on deck early. The early shore-wind tossed unruly brown curls into her eyes and across the delicate pink of her cheeks.
When the yachtsman joined her, she read in his eyes that he had been long awake and was deeply troubled. In the shadow of the after-cabin she stopped him with a light touch on his arm.
"Now tell me," she demanded, "what is the matter?"
His voice was quiet. "There is nothing in my thoughts that you cannot read—so—" He lifted the eyes in question, half-despairing despite the smile he had schooled into them. "Why rehearse it all again?"
Her face clouded.
He turned his gaze on the single dome and four minarets of the Mosque of Suleyman.
"Besides," he added at length, speaking in a steady monotone, "I couldn't tell it without saying things that are forbidden."
When she spoke the dominant note in her voice was weariness.
"My life," she said, "is a miserable serial of calling on you and sending you away. Back there"—she waved her hand to the vague west—"it is summer—wonderful American summer! The woods are thick and green.... The big rocks by the creek are splotched yellow with the sun, and green with the moss.... I wonder who rides Spartan now, when the hounds are out!" She broke off suddenly, with a sobbing catch in her throat, then she shook her head sadly. "You see, you must go!" she added. "You will take my heart with you—but that is better than this."
She turned and led the way forward and for the length of the deck he walked at her side in silence.