“Mr. Bayard,” said Helen, with her pleasant unexpectedness, “I owe you something.”
All this while she had not mentioned the wreck or the rescue; she alone, of all people whom he had seen since he came out of his sick-room, had not inquired, nor exclaimed, nor commended, nor admired. Something in her manner—it could hardly be said what—reminded him now of this omission; he had not thought of it before.
“I owe you a recognition,” she said.
“I cancel the debt,” he answered, smiling.
“You cannot. I owe you the recognition—of a friend—for that brave and noble deed you did. Accept it, sir!”
She spread out her hands with a pretty gesture, as if she gave him something; she moved her head with a commanding and royal turn, as if her gift had value. He lifted his hat.
“I could have done no less then; but I might do more—now.”
His worn face had lightened delicately. He looked hopeful and happy.
“A man doesn’t put himself where I am, to complain,” he added. “But I don’t suppose you could even guess how solitary my position is. The right thing said in the right way gives me more courage than—people who say it can possibly understand. I have so few friends—now. If you allow me to count you among them, you do me a very womanly kindness; so then I shall owe you”—