"But—why—what—what——" stammered Peter.
"Oh, Mr. Moore, I know—I know!" Miss Vost proceeded earnestly. "Like all fine, brave men, you are—you are modest! It—it almost makes me want to cry, to think—to think——"
"But, Miss Vost," interrupted Peter, gently and gravely, "you are shooting over my head!"
In the rakish bows of the Hankow arose the clank and clatter of wet anchor-chains. A bell tinkled in the engine-room. The stout fabric of the little steamer shuddered. The yellow water began to slip by them. On the shore two pagodas moved slowly into alignment. The Hankow was moving.
Miss Vost strengthened her gentle hold upon Peter's reluctant arm. Her bright eyes were a trifle blurred. "Last night, when we met on the bund," she went on in a small voice, "I knew immediately—immediately—what you were. A chivalrous gentleman! A man who would shelter and protect any helpless woman he met!"
"That was nice of you," murmured Peter.
Like Saul of Tarsus, he was beginning to see a bright light.
"And it was true!" Miss Vost plunged on. "Now—now, you are risking your life—for poor, unworthy little me! Please don't deny it, Mr. Moore! I only wanted to let you know that I—I understand, and that I am—g-grateful!" Her eyelids fluttered over an unstifled moistness.
"Bobbie loves you," blurted Peter. "He'd do anything in the world for you. He told me so. He told me——"
Miss Vost opened her eyes on a look that was hurt and humiliated. "What?"