“I’ve as much right to believe that as you have that Cunningham will keep his word.”
“Oh!” she cried, but it was an outburst of anger. And it had a peculiar twist, too. She was furious because both father and son were partly correct; and yet there was no diminution of that trust she was putting in Cunningham. “Next you’ll be hinting that I’m in collusion with him!”
“No. Only he is an extraordinarily fascinating rogue, and you are wearing the tinted goggles of romance.”
Fearing that she might utter something regrettable, she flew down the port passage and entered her cabin, where she remained until dinner. 179 She spent the intervening hours endeavouring to analyze the cause of her temper, but the cause was as elusive as quicksilver. Why should she trust Cunningham? What was the basis of this trust? He had, as Denny said, broken the law of the sea. Was there a bit of black sheep in her, and was the man calling to it? And this perversity of hers might create an estrangement between her and Denny; she must not let that happen. The singular beauty of the man’s face, his amazing career, and his pathetic deformity—was that it?
“Where’s the captain?” asked Cunningham, curiously, as he noted the vacant chair at the table that night.
“On deck, I suppose.”
“Isn’t he dining to-night?”—an accent of suspicion creeping into his voice. “He isn’t contemplating making a fool of himself, is he? He’ll get hurt if he approaches the wireless.”
“Togo,” broke in Cleigh, “bring the avocats and the pineapple.”
Cunningham turned upon him with a laugh.