Varney turned abruptly from her and looked out at the flying shore.
"Last night," said he, "you may remember that you asked me a question.
You asked me why I objected to accepting help from you."
"Yes, but that was last night," she interrupted, her instinct instantly warning her away from the topic—"and you didn't tell me, you know! Really—we must turn around in two minutes, and so I haven't time to talk about a thing but yachts."
"I fear that you must find time."
"Must, Mr. Varney?"
"Must. This is a matter in which you are directly concerned."
She faced him in frank wonderment. "Why, what on earth can you mean?"
"Now you must! Now you must!" sang the Cypriani's staunch little engines.
But he made the mistake of looking at her, and this move betrayed him. There was no doubt of him in her upturned, perplexed face, no shadow of distrust to give him strength. His earlier dread of this moment, strangely faded for a while, closed in on him once more with deadly force.
"Don't you see that I am trying to tell you and that I am finding it—hard?" he said quietly.