“I’m not sure,” he answered slowly. “Nothing that need worry you. Some secret. Come. They’re going clear across the river. We can be home before them.”
In starlight they heaped the boughs once more, waded through the belt of firs, and clambered down, hand in hand, toward the beach. All the way to their own shore, and all along the evergreen path from the quarter-deck to Alward’s, a strange silence held them apart. With few words or none, they reached her door; only on the dark threshold she turned to speak, and then, as it seemed, resentfully.
“It isn’t like you,” she said; and before he could frame a question, “Why, not to tell me what you really think. That was what I liked about you.”
He gave thought to his reply:—
“How can I tell you till I’m certain? That wouldn’t be fair—to any of us. It’s nothing serious.”
“If you believe that—” Her manner changed. “I suppose you’re right. But when you’re certain, will you?”
“Of course,” he promised. “The first minute I’m sure.”
She made an impulsive movement. The darkness had thinned insensibly, yet enough to show her hand outstretched. He clasped it, both for good-by and for the compact.
