"You got both on the Caribbean," Flora remarked.
"No," said Wyndham, "not much light. For a few hours, the glare was dazzling, but soon the shadow crept back from the bush and the fever-mist floated about the boat. On the creek and at the village, you got a sense of gloom that never melted." He paused and added with a smile: "It's often like that in the tropics, and the gloom is not altogether physical."
Flora noted the thinness of his face and his pallor. Her glance got soft and pitiful.
"My dear!" she said. "I wanted you to win; not that I cared for your winning, but because I wanted you to satisfy others who do not know you so well."
"Your father, for example?" he rejoined with a twinkle. "Well, he took the proper line, but I think I have some arguments that will persuade him."
"I sent you," she said, with a touch of color. "Afterwards I saw that I was shabby and vain. I ought not to have let you go. What did it matter about the others, when I was satisfied? You have won and they will own this, but I'm afraid it has cost you much."
Wyndham gave her a rather sharp glance and then smiled. "One must pay for what one gets, but, if it's much comfort, I was very willing."
"You were always generous, but I'm afraid you're sometimes rash."
"The rashness was justified. If I had to choose again, I'd stake my all, fortune, mind, and body, and think the risk worth while."
"You're very nice," said Flora, and added with a blush: "But, in one way, there was no risk. Even if you had been beaten, I would have persuaded father. It was rather for his sake you went than mine and that's why I'm half ashamed. But he deserved something; he has long indulged me."