“I do not call it unlucky,” said Morris with grave courtesy, “since it gave me the honour of your acquaintance; or perhaps I may say of your friendship.”
“Yes,” she answered, looking pleased; “certainly you may say of my friendship. It is owing to the man who saved my life, is it not,—with a great deal more that I can never pay?”
“Don’t speak of it,” he said. “That midnight sail was my one happy inspiration, my one piece of real good luck.”
“Perhaps,” and she sighed, “that is, for me, though who can tell? I have often wondered what made you do it, there was so little to go on.”
“I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration.”
“And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?”
“Fate, I suppose.”
“Yes, I think it must be what we call fate—if it troubles itself about so small a thing as the life of one woman.”
Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland moors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence among them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they did together, for even then Morris drank very little wine.
“May I get you the violin, and will you sing?” he asked eagerly, when they reached the library.