Then—
“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.”
“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I feel better now.”
The lie sailed straight to its mark.
“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?”
“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.”
The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with three dazzling beams.
“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough.