“Then there is a chance?”
“Oh, yes, for me to study you as you once did me—as one of the culicidæ, I presume. But if you would listen to reason, and end this foolishness, and set us all ashore, why, I would be almost willing to forgive you, and we might be friends again,—only friends, Harry, as we once were. Why not, Harry?”
“You wheedle well,” said I, “but you forget that what you ask is impossible. I am Black Bart the Avenger, and the hand of every man is against me. I am too deep in this adventure to end it here. Why? I did not even dare go down-town for fear I might be arrested. Nothing remains but further flight, and when you ask me to fly and leave you here, you ask what is impossible.”
She stood for a time silent, a trifle paler, her flowers fallen from her hand, clearly unhappy, but clearly not yet beaten. “Come,” said she coldly, “we must not be brutal to Aunt Lucinda also. Let us go back.”
“Yes,” said I, “now you have back your parole.”
“I think I should like an artichoke for luncheon,” said she. “Vinaigrette, you know.” And she passed aft, her head hidden by her white parasol, but I knew with chin as high as though she were Marie Antoinette herself. Nor did I feel much happier than had I been her executioner.