'My dear Brenda,' said Trist with animation, 'am I a cripple? Am I blind or dumb, or halt—that I have aught to endure?'
'You have something,' was the grave rejoinder. 'There is something, but I do not know what it is, and I would sooner see you openly miserable—cynical, heartless, anything but what you are.'
He laughed aloud, and she shrugged her shoulders with a little smile.
'You should really devote your energies to novel-writing,' he said gaily. 'You see romance where none exists. For you, indigestion is nothing else than a broken heart. An unfortunate gravity of demeanour (like mine) means a cankering sorrow, and every smile is hollow.'
No answering smile came over her face, and she seemed suddenly to remember that Mrs. Wylie might be awake and requiring her presence.
She moved away a little, and stood watching the men at work forward at the windlass. Then she turned and looked past him across the sea.
'I cannot help feeling,' she said, 'that in some way you must owe me a grudge. Of course I had nothing to do with it in reality; but she was my sister, and despite your denial, despite your forbearance and wonderful charity, you must, in your inmost heart, blame Alice.'
He turned his meek eyes towards her face with a patient smile.
'My dear Brenda,' he said remonstratingly, 'what firm convictions you have! Once before—long ago—you hinted at this ... matter, and in reply I insinuated that Alice was nothing to me. Her influence has no weight on my actions; it in no way affects my coming or my going. Please don't think of me and my affairs.'
She moved away slowly, reluctantly, without replying, gliding across the deck with noiseless tread, and so the strange interview terminated with a curious questioning silence on both sides. There was something that she did not dare to ask, something he dreaded, for his eyes were dull with a great suspense as he stood watching her go away from him.