The music dropped them suddenly, isolating them at the stern of the deck. The silence was complete. It was a moment of unreality, the rhythmic blood still in motion, the wistfulness of the moonlight falling on peaceful waters. Rickard broke it to ask her what she thought of the camp.
Her resentments were recalled. She blundered through her impression of the lightness, the gaiety.
“So you think we ought to be solemn?” His tone teased her. The eyes that always confused Gerty were on her. She again tried to be vocal.
“It does not suggest a battle-ground, I mean. The talk to-night at table, the dancing, the fun! It does not seem like a battle camp—”
“You’ve been in a battle camp, Miss Hardin?”
She would not be flouted. “The atmosphere—it’s a camp vacation.”
“A work camp does not have to be solemn. You’ll find all the grimness you want if you look beneath the surface.” She thought, later, of what she might have said to him, but then she stood silent, feeling like a silly child under his light mockery.
The guitars were tuning up. “Shall I take you back? I have this dance with your sister.”
She thought of Tom—on his lonely cot outside his tent. She forgot that she had been asked a question. He was dancing again with Gerty! If that silly little woman had no scruples, no fine feeling, this man should at least guard her. If he had been her lover, he should be careful; he must see that people were talking of them. She had seen the glances that evening! The business relation between the two men should suggest tact, if not decency! It was outrageous.
Rickard stood waiting to be dismissed; puzzled. Through the uncertain light, her anger came to him. She looked taller, older; there was a flame of accusing passion in her eyes.