“Since it is all chance—” she said, looking downward.
She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience which gives way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when it comes; for its real name is Indifference.
Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, she knew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what.
“I suppose,” she said, “that it was chance that saved our lives that night two months ago, out there.”
And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her pointing toward the estuary, which was quiet enough now, looking up at him with that strange anger or new disquietude—it was hard to tell which—glowing in her eyes. The wind fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a ribbon in the mode named “à la diable” by some French wit with a sore heart in an old man’s breast. For none other could have so aptly described it.
“All chance, mademoiselle,” he answered, looking over her head toward the river.
“And it would have been the same had it been only Marie or Marie and Jean in the boat with you?”
“The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as strong.”
“And you?” asked the girl, with a glance from her persistent eyes.
“Oh no!” he answered, with a laugh. “I should not have been the same. But you must not continue to stand there, mademoiselle; the wall is unsafe.”