“Oh, Louis doesn’t want to spy.” Her tone convicted the suggestion of rank absurdity. “I told you he’s been dreadfully angry. Too angry to write. Perhaps too angry to speak.” Was that it? Again the upward glance. “But”—she clutched at the inalienable comfort—“it’s Louis Cheviot.”
“Well, don’t be too certain this time, that’s all.”
Not be certain? But that was just what she must be. Another quick look, and lo! the bridge was empty. “I’m quite, quite sure—but I—I’ll just go and see.”
He was standing near the door of the chart-room. As Hildegarde’s head came up the figure vanished. When she reached the threshold there it was, back turned to the door, cap bent over a map. Incredible to her now that she hadn’t known him all along; but, nevertheless, she stood wavering, seized by something else than mere excitement—a wholly unexpected shyness. Was he indeed nursing that old anger against her? Was it conceivable he wanted to avoid her the whole voyage? She half turned back, telling herself that at all events something was the matter with her tongue—it was a physical impossibility for her to speak. Then the next thing was, she heard her own voice saying quite steadily, with even a faint ring of defiance, “It’s no use! I’ve found you out!”
The figure flashed about, and Hildegarde caught the shine in the black-fringed eyes as he pulled off the cap, leaving his hair ruffled. He held out his hand, laughing, but, as it would almost seem, a little shamefaced. “Well, it took you long enough.”
“No wonder!” She felt an imperative need to prevent her gladness from appearing excessive. “You can’t ever say again there’s nothing of the actor in you.”
“Why can’t I?”
“After masquerading all these days?”
“I didn’t mean to masquerade.”
“Why did you go about in that horrid cap then, and never speak to me, or—”