"No," said Jimmy, "that is certainly not the case. Still, they put me into the little boat out of friendliness—and I'm not quite sure anybody else could do as much for them, or, at least, would make an equal effort in the somewhat curious circumstances. Of course, that sounds a trifle egotistical; but still——"
Burnell signified comprehension. "It is not altogether a question of money."
"I couldn't come if you offered me treble the usual thing," said Jimmy gravely.
The other man nodded. "Well," he said, "I'm sorry, because after what you have told me I almost think we should have hit it tolerably well together. At any time you think I could be of service, you can write to me."
He talked about other matters for a while, and it was half an hour after he went away when Jimmy once more came face to face with Anthea Merril. She was walking slowly through the creeping shadow of the pines, and stopped when she saw him beside a barberry bush, among whose clustering blossoms jeweled humming-birds flitted. One of them that gleamed iridescent hovered on wings that moved invisibly close above her shoulder.
"So," she said, "you have not done as I suggested?"
Jimmy looked at her gravely, and once more felt the blood creep into his face. She had told him she was going to Alaska on board the yacht, and he almost ventured to fancy she had meant it as an inducement; but there was no trace of resentment in her voice. Anthea was too proud for that.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Still, you see, I couldn't."
There was no doubt that he was sorry, and a look that left him almost bewildered crept into the girl's eyes.
"Why?" she asked quietly.