“So, when you land, go straight to your father,” said Beauchamp, to whose conception it was a simple act resulting from the avowal.
“Oh! you torture me,” she cried. Her eyelashes were heavy with tears. “I cannot do it. Think what you will of me! And, my friend, help me. Should you not help me? I have not once actually disobeyed my father, and he has indulged me, but he has been sure of me as a dutiful girl. That is my source of self-respect. My friend can always be my friend.”
“Yes, while it’s not too late,” said Beauchamp.
She observed a sudden stringing of his features. He called to the chief boatman, made his command intelligible to that portly capitano, and went on to Roland, who was puffing his after-breakfast cigarette in conversation with the tolerant English lady.
“You condescend to notice us, Signor Beauchamp,” said Roland. “The vessel is up to some manœuvre?”
“We have decided not to land,” replied Beauchamp. “And Roland,” he checked the Frenchman’s shout of laughter, “I think of making for Trieste. Let me speak to you, to both. Renée is in misery. She must not go back.”
Roland sprang to his feet, stared, and walked over to Renée.
“Nevil,” said Rosamund Culling, “do you know what you are doing?”
“Perfectly,” said he. “Come to her. She is a girl, and I must think and act for her.”
Roland met them.