"Yes, but won't you leave off a minute? It—it would be convenient if you'd leave off a minute and tell me which ships?"
He did leave off, to look into her eyes in the dusk, eyes fixed on him in a concentration of questioning that left his epithets on one side as so much irrelevant lumber.
"Little worshipful thing," he said, still gripping her hand, "did you really think you could go back? Did you really think you could?"
"Go back where?"
"To that unworthy rubbish heap, Kökensee?"
She stared at him. Their faces, close together, were white in the dusk, and their eyes looking into each other's were like glowing dark patches.
"Why should I not think so?" she said.
"Because, you little artist in recklessness, you've burned your ships."
She made an impatient movement, and he tightened his hold on her hand.
"Please," she said, "do you mind telling me about the ships?"