“You want her at her glorious best, is that it?” It seemed too strange that the pure feminine should show at a time of crisis like this, but there it was. It was this woman’s way. But he added presently: “When she asks you what we have talked about, what will you say?”
“Is it not easy? I am a mother,” she said meaningly.
“And I am an ex-convict, and a mutineer—is that it?”
She inclined her head. “It should not be difficult to explain. When you came I was speaking as I felt, and she will not think it strange if I give that as my reason.”
“But is it wise? Isn’t it better to end it all now? Suppose Lord Mallow tells her.”
“He did not before. He is not likely now,” was the vexed reply. “Is it a thing a gentleman will speak of to a lady?”
“But you do not know Mallow. If he thought she had seen me to-day, he would not hesitate. What would you do if you were Lord Mallow?”
“No, not to-day,” she persisted. “It is all so many years ago. It can hurt naught to wait a little longer.”
“When and where shall it be?” he asked gloomily. “At Salem—at Salem. We shall be settled then—and steady. There is every reason why you should consider me. I have suffered as few women have suffered, and I do not hate you. I am only sorry.”
Far down at the other end of the garden he saw Sheila. Her face was in profile—an exquisite silhouette. She moved slowly among the pimento bushes.