Challis gazed at it for a long time.
'Yes,' she said slowly; 'that is how it makes me feel. I feel I want to beg him to stop trying, and lie down and go to sleep. But it wouldn't be any use. You feel the storm will last for ever, and the captain will go on trying for ever to get to wherever he has made up his mind to get to.'
'Your father intends it to represent the Flying Dutchman,' said Miss Browne.
'Oh yes!' Challis said. 'Of course. I ought to have known. But it is just like this picture—just as sad. And I play it too. Wagner, you know,—Der fliegende Hollander,—it makes you want to cry.'
'My love,' cried Miss Browne, 'you say you know an artist in Paris. Why, surely that would be the very thing! I believe they are all jealous of him in Sydney. Write to your friend. He would take notice of a letter from you. Write to him, and send the picture too. You can afford to, and it is not likely to go astray, since you know the exact address. Suppose we start to do it now?'
Challis sprang up with shining eyes. It seemed the loveliest plan in the world.
'It shall be our secret, you dear, dear thing!' she cried. 'We won't tell a single soul in the world—not even mother. Let's write it down that we promise.' She pushed pen and ink to Miss Browne. 'Write on this paper,' she said, '"I promise Challis Cameron faithfully I won't tell any one in the world."'
Miss Browne wrote the compact down, smiling.
Challis seized the pen.
'I promise Miss Brown faithfully I won't tell,' she wrote.