Perhaps it was the vision of early summer that the words called up; perhaps it was the smile, half-seen in the semi-dark, that curved her provoking lips; perhaps it was compunction for his share in the tragedy of the Connemara mare; but possibly without any of these explanations Rupert would have done as he did, which was to place his hand on Fanny Fitz’s as it lay on the bench beside him.
She was so amazed that for a moment she wildly thought he had mistaken it in the darkness for his tobacco pouch. Then, jumping with a shock to the conclusion that even the unsympathetic Mr. Gunning shared most men’s views about not wasting an opportunity, she removed her hand with a jerk.
“Oh! I beg your pardon!” said Rupert pusillanimously. Miss Fitzroy fell back again on the tobacco pouch theory.
At this moment the glowing end of a cigar deviated from its orbit on the deck and approached them.
“Is that you, Gunning? I thought it was your voice,” said the owner of the cigar.
“Yes, it is,” said Mr. Gunning, in a tone singularly lacking in encouragement. “Thought I saw you at dinner, but couldn’t be sure.”
As a matter of fact, no one could have been more thoroughly aware than he of Captain Carteret’s presence in the saloon.
“I thought so too!” said Fanny Fitz, from the darkness, “Captain Carteret wouldn’t look my way!”
Captain Carteret gave a somewhat exaggerated start of discovery, and threw his cigar over the side. He had evidently come to stay.
“How was it I didn’t see you at the Horse Show?” he said.