"Only one reason," he said again, and still he seemed to speak as one who communes with his inner soul. "She was dying—and she wanted me." He paused a moment, and an odd tremor went through him. "After twenty years," he said, as if in wonder at himself.
Saltash's look came swiftly upwards. "I've heard that before," he said. "Those she caught she kept—always. No other woman was ever worth while after Rozelle."
Larpent's hand clenched instinctively, but he said nothing.
Saltash went on in the same casual tone. "She never caught me, mon ami. I met her too late in life—when I was beginning to get fastidious." His monkey-like grin showed for a moment. "I appreciated her charm, but—it left me cold."
"You never saw her in her first youth," said Larpent, and into his fixed eyes there came a curious glow—the look of a man who sees a vision.
"What was she like then?" said Saltash.
Slowly the sailor answered him, word by word as one spelling out a strange language. "She was like a butterfly that plays among the flowers in the early morning. She had the look of a boy—the wide-open eyes, the fearless way, the freedom, the daring. Her innocence—her loveliness—" Something rose unexpectedly in his throat. He stopped and swallowed hard. "My God! How lovely she was!" he said, in a strangled voice.
Saltash got up in his sudden, elastic fashion. "Look here! You want a drink. Sit down while I get you one!"
He was gone with the words, not waiting for the half-uttered remonstrance that the other man sent after him.
Larpent stood staring heavily before him for a space, then turned with a mechanical movement and dropped into a chair. He was sitting so, bent forward, his hands clasped in front of him when Saltash returned. He had the worn, grey look of a man tired out with hard travel.