"It is very good of you," I said slowly, "to warn me. I know that I am not made of the stuff that Guest was. It is possible that I may—"
"It is true, then," she interrupted breathlessly, "you are really meaning to go with his schemes?"
"You take too much for granted," I answered.
"Oh! don't let us misunderstand one another," she begged. "Tell me why you are on your way to America! Tell me why you are on this steamer, of all others."
"I am going to shoot—out West," I said, "and I want to know something of your wonderful country-people!"
She let her fingers slip from my arm.
"You will tell me no more than that," she murmured.
"I have nothing more to tell you," I answered.
Once more she leaned towards me. The wind was blowing around us, she came closer as though seeking for the shelter of my body. I could smell the crushed violets, which she was still wearing at her bosom; her eyes were soft and bright, her lips were slightly parted. I took her into my arms—she clung to me for a moment—one long, delicious moment.
"I have given it all up," she whispered, "for you! If I had told the truth, if I had told them that you knew, it would have meant death! You must forget, you must swear to forget."