Polly Candage had come to him when he stepped foot on shore, hands outstretched to him, and eyes alight. And when she put her hands in his he knew, in his soul, that this was the greeting he had been waiting for; her words of congratulation were the dearest of all, her smile was the best reward, and for her dear self he had been hungry.
But he would not admit to himself that he had come to woo.
When the soft dusk had softened the harsh outlines of the little hamlet, and the others were busy with their own affairs and had left Mayo and Polly to themselves, he sat with her on the porch of the widow's cottage, where they spent that first evening after they had been saved from the sea.
There had been a long silence between them. “We have had no opportunity—I have not dared yet to tell you my best hopes for the dearest thing of all,” she ventured.
“The one up inland. I know. I am glad for you.”
“What one up inland?”
“That young man—the only young man in all the world.”
“Oh yes! I had forgotten.”
He stared at her. “Forgotten?”
“Why—why—I don't exactly mean forgotten. But I was not thinking about him when I spoke. I mean that now—with your new prospects—you can go to—to—There may come a time when you can speak to Mr. Marston.”