Her face was as red as a poppy.
"And I killed this man because—well," she snapped, "perhaps because I hate you."
Had she cut him with a whip, Peter could not have felt more hurt, more humiliated, more ashamed, for gratitude was far from being a stranger to him.
He half extended his arms in mute apology, and, surprised, he found her lips caressing his, her warm arms about his neck. He kissed her—once—and put her away from him; and that guiding star of his in California could be thankful that Romola Borria's embrace was rather more forgiving than insinuating.
"We must get rid of this coolie," she said, brushing the clusters of dark hair from her face. "I will help you, if you like. But over he goes!"
"But the blood."
"Call a deck-boy. Tell him as little as you need. You are one of the ship's officers. He will not question you."
He hesitated.
"Can you forgive me for this—way I have acted, my—my ingratitude?"
"Forgiveness seems to be a woman's principal role in life," she said with a tired smile. "Yes. I am sorry, too, that we misunderstood. Good-night, my dear."