There was a bit of hauteur in her voice. She preserved much of the acerbity which had marked her demeanor when they had said good-by to each other. He would not acknowledge to himself that he hoped she would meet him on another plane; he meekly accepted her attitude as the proper one. He was a sailor, and she was the daughter of Julius Marston.
“Do you blame me for being suspicious in regard to what you intend to say to my father?” she demanded. “I tell you frankly that I came here looking for you. We must settle our affair.”
“I am trying to get word with him about my own business—simply my own business, Miss Marston.”
“But as to me! What are you going to say to him about me? You remember I told you that I intended to protect myself,” she declared, with some insolence.
“I thought you had a better opinion of me,” he protested. “Miss Marston, as far as I am concerned, you never were on that schooner. I know nothing about you. I do not even know you. Do you understand?”
He started away hastily. “Don't stay here. Don't speak to me. Somebody may see you.”
“'Come back here!”
He stopped.
“I demand an explicit promise from you that if you are able to talk with my father you will never mention my name to him or try to take advantage of the dreadful mistake I made.”
“I promise, on my honor,” he said, straightening.