“You always leave—so—early!” he stammered.
“Does that make it any worse?” she asked, trying to smile. It was not a very successful smile, and Bayard saw it. They were approaching the electric arc that lighted the entrance to the beach. The cold, light lay white on her face. Its expression startled him.
“Everything makes it worse!” he groaned. “It is as bad as it can be!”
“I can see how it might have been worse,” said Helen.
“That’s more than I can do. What do you mean?”
“I would rather not tell you,” replied Helen with gentle dignity.
“Tell me what you mean!”
He turned about and lifted her averted face; he touched her with the tip of one trembling finger under the chin.
“I prefer not to tell you, Mr. Bayard.”
She did not flush, nor blush. Her eyes met his steadily. Something in them sent the mad color racing across his face.