“Ah, yes, it was before I knew,” he acquiesced, and went off in a dream.
She supposed the “Yes” was intended for an answer to her question, but it was not clear enough fur her burning longing to be certain.
“They were once engaged?”
“Yes.” He forced himself to add with a smile—“The sphinx was a woman.”
“To have followed shows that he must love her,” said Millie thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
She hugged her pain.
“Why not, indeed! But if she is as unchanged as he, will he not suffer?”
“Fortunes of war,” returned Wareham briefly, and dropped the conversation; from which, however, he drew the consolation that Millie’s pity showed what she thought was in store for the young man. For this he forgave her the questioning which he might otherwise have resented. He had not a suspicion that she saw any further than her words told him, the childish dimple in her cheek belying such a thought. What he read was as much curiosity as belongs to a daughter of Eve, joined to a kindly sympathy for the young fellow whose perseverance perhaps touched kindly romance. If adverse fate could have flung these two together! He talked to her, reaching further into her mind than ever before, and the more he probed its innocent depths, the more he blamed fate for its dilatoriness. And Millie, all unconscious of this dream, suffered a lurking fancy of possible contingencies to brighten her eyes and deepen the pretty colour in her cheek. The sun shone, but the wind was cold. Wareham felt that he was responsible for her comfort, and saw that her deck-chair was placed at a right angle, and moved when necessary; he helped her when she moved, and sat next her at meals. On his own account he was glad of the companionship, for to be alone was to think, not of Anne, but of Anne and Hugh.
By the next morning they were in smooth water, and Mrs Ravenhill came on deck. She thanked Wareham for his care of her daughter.