“Could—could you take the plunge with me, Joan?”
Joan started violently.
“With you, Perry? What d’you mean?”
“I mean, if I held your hand. You see, you’re not alone, Joan . . . not—alone—in the boat.”
“Perry!”
Trembling with excitement, the man continued jerkily.
“All you’ve said of yourself you might have been saying of me. I’m in the same boat, Joan. I’ve been there for seven years. And I haven’t the nerve to plunge—either. I can preach, but I can’t practise. But I think I might save myself if I tried to save you.”
Joan clapped her hands to her cheeks.
“Oh, Perry, I’m frightened,” she breathed. “Supposing he——”
“He’ll be asleep,” said Peregrine. “Listen. We get to Bordeaux about one. Bordeaux’s the place. Come out of your sleeper there. I’ll—I’ll be in the corridor. We must let our big baggage go.” The sweat was running on his forehead. Impatiently he wiped it off. “Write your letter to Paris the moment you’re back.”