Acton’s eyes twinkled, and the men who were his guests looked at one another meaningly.
“Well,” answered one of them, “I guess there is an explanation, though I didn’t think Martial was that kind of man.”
Nasmyth said nothing, but he saw Mrs. Acton’s face flush with anger and disdain, and surmised that it was most unlikely that she would forgive the unfortunate Martial. The women in the party evidently felt that it would not be advisable to say anything further about the matter, and when George broke out the anchor the Tillicum steamed away.
It was after supper that night, and there was nobody except the helmsman on deck, when Miss Hamilton approached the forward scuttle where Nasmyth sat with his 160 pipe in his hand. Nasmyth rose and spread out an old sail for her, and she sat down a little apart from him. The Tillicum was steaming northwards at a leisurely six knots, with her mastheads swaying rhythmically through the soft darkness, and a deep-toned gurgling at her bows. By-and-by Nasmyth became conscious that Miss Hamilton was looking at him, and, on the whole, he was glad that it was too dark for her to see him very well.
“I wonder if you were very much astonished at what you heard about Mr. Martial?” she asked.
“Well,” said Nasmyth reflectively, “in one way at least, I certainly was. You see, I did not think Martial was, as our friend observed, that kind of man. In fact, I may admit that I feel reasonably sure of it still.”
“I suppose you felt you owed him that?”
“I didn’t want to leave you under a misapprehension.”
There was silence for half a minute, and then Nasmyth turned towards the girl again.
“You are still a little curious about the affair?” he suggested.