“Don’t,” he murmured, repeating her word; “I am only human.”
“And I am not. Is that it? Well, perhaps you are right.”
“I did not say so. What I meant was, that if you look at me so—”
“Spare me! I detest explanations. Do you see that ship?” she turned her face to the labouring sloop. “It carries many souls—men who have friends waiting for them in some far-off hacienda, gleaming white in the bright sun, wives, mothers, and others as dear, who would grieve were they lost. You know, I had it in my head to sink that ship and all on board. What do you think of me? I would like to know.”
“It was a horrible fancy,” he said a little sternly; “but I do not believe you meant to carry it out.”
“Ah! you do not know me,” she whispered, with a shudder; “I am sometimes afraid of myself.”
“You brood too much over your sorrows. Why not come up here more often and talk with us?” he said, with a jealous thought of Commins.
“That is very good of you,” she answered demurely, with a swift change of expression; “and I appreciate the invitation all the more because of the evident implication that I alone am to benefit from it.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said hastily; “what I meant—”
“Yes, yes; how dull you are, Mr Hume!”