But that very afternoon, stealing out of the house quietly, while his friends were smoking in the little salon, he hired a boat and set sail for the island of Creux.
He meant to see Miss Eden if he died for it. Perhaps some rags of pretence still hung about his mind as to the reason of the interest he took in the beautiful girl. But if so, they fell away and left the bare truth for him to face when, coming upon the girl suddenly in a cleft of the cliff as he went upwards on landing, he found that the unexpected meeting sent the blood flying to his head with a force which made him giddy.
For a moment he said nothing, and, strange to say, the girl was silent also.
“Well?” said she at last.
She was changed since he had seen her last. The colour had left her cheeks, and though her eyes were as bright as ever it was with a different brightness: they seemed to glitter, so he fancied, with unshed tears. And she had not even the conventional smile of greeting for him, but let the one word drop from her lips in a rather husky and tremulous voice, almost, so he thought, as if she felt sure that he guessed the reason of her sadness.
“I—I wanted to see you again,” stammered he at last. “I came—I came—to—to see you.”
He was ashamed of himself. Anything more lame, more clumsy, than these words it was impossible to imagine. But Miss Eden took them quite simply.
“Why did you want to see me?” she asked quickly.
“I—I couldn’t speak to you this morning. And I thought perhaps—perhaps you would think it odd.”
He was floundering hopelessly. Why should she think it odd? he asked himself with rage at his own lack of words, of ideas. But again she lifted him out of his embarrassment by saying,—