"I see." There was a strained look about her lips. Before them heavily laden negroes and a few sailors passed and repassed. The burly red-headed mate often looked at her; amazement and curiosity were depicted on his features; he almost forgot the duties Mr. Heatherbloom had, for a brief interval, thrust upon him. Betty Dalrymple, however, had ceased to observe him; he, the others, no longer existed for her. She saw only Mr. Heatherbloom now; what he said, she knew he meant; she realized with an odd thrill of mingled admiration and pain that even she could not cause him to change his mind. He would "stick to his job", because he had said he would.
"I'm interrupting, I fear," she said, a feeling of strange humility sweeping over her. "When is your day's work done?"
"About six, I expect."
"The governor gives a ball for me to-night," she said.
"Excellent. All the elite of the port will be there, and," with slow meditative accent, "I can imagine how you'll look!"
"Can you?" she asked, bending somewhat nearer.
"Yes." His gaze was straight ahead.
The white glove stole toward the black hand. "Why don't you come?"
"I?" He stared.
"Yes; the governor has sent you an invitation. He thinks you a secret-service officer."