"I think you had better take up your quarters here for a time," he added. She flinched at the prospect.
"But why? It is so public! Everyone off the boat seems to be here, and I shall have to keep on telling lies just because I know them. It seems to me I can't open my mouth without telling a lie, and," she finished desperately, "it makes me sick."
He looked at her coldly. His fine brown eyes could be hard as flint.
"I thought it was a promise—some sort of a compact—to do what was best—for her?" he remarked. A little cold wave of the sea seemed to creep over her soul, and she could see her hands trembling as she dealt with the fruit on her plate.
"Very well," she acquiesced tonelessly, at last; "if you think it best.
How long am I to stay?"
"Until next week's mail-boat sails," he said slowly. "I have been down to see if I could get you a berth on this week's, but she is full up."
"You want me to return to England?" There was desperate resistance in her voice now. She had not realized until that moment how much she wished to stay.
"It is not what I want: it is for her," he insisted ruthlessly. "You must go to her father and explain everything. Letters are no good."
She was silent, but her eyes were wretched. She wanted to stay in
Africa.
"After all, it is your share of the payment for folly," he pursued relentlessly. That was too much for her temper.