“Everything in the world is wrong with me, as you know very well,” said I. “Am I not a poor man? Am I not an unsuccessful lover? Am I not a failure under every test which you can apply? Am I not a coward—did you not tell me so yourself?”
Her eyes grew damp slowly. “I didn’t mean it,” said she.
“It was long before—that was before last night, Harry. You forget.”
“What if it was?” I demanded. “I was the same man then that I was last night.”
“I didn’t mean it, Harry,” said she, her voice low. Her hand was still on my arm. Her eye now was cast down, the tip of her toe was tracing a circle on the wet sand where we stood.
“I didn’t think,” said she, after a little while.
“I presume not,” said I coldly. “Sometimes women do not stop to think. You have not stopped to think that there is a limit even to what my love would stand, Helena. Now, much as I love you—and I never loved you so much as I do now—I’ll never again ask you for what you can not give me. I’ve been rubbed the wrong way all I can stand, and I’ll not have it any more. I’ve brought you here, yes, and I’m sorry enough for it. But I’m going to fix all that now, soon as I can.”
“What do you mean, Harry?” she asked quietly.
“Yonder, across the bay,” said I, pointing, “runs a channel. That’s the Chenière. I presume the lighthouse boats come from in there. Maybe there’ll be one down after the storm in a day or so. He’ll take out a message, and get it on some boat bound for Morgan City, perhaps.”