“I have spoken to Mr. Marston, quite lately. He has spoken to me,” he said, his face hard. “We shall never speak to each other again, if I can have my way.”
He met her astonished gaze. “Polly, I hate to trouble you with my poor affairs of this kind. I can talk of business to Mr. Vose, and of the sea to your father. But there's another matter that I can't mention to anybody—except you will listen. I will tell you where I saw Mr. Marston—and his daughter.”
She listened, her lips apart.
“So, you see,” he said at the end, “it was worse than a dream; it was a mistake. It couldn't have been real love, for it was not built on the right foundation. I have never had much experience with girls. I have been swashing about at sea 'most all my life. Perhaps I don't know what real love is. But it seems to me it can't amount to much unless it is built up on mutual understanding, willingness to sacrifice for each other.”
“I think so,” returned Polly, softly.
“I want to see that young man of yours, up inland. I want to tell him that he is mighty lucky because he met you first.”
“Why?”
“I can't tell you just why. It isn't right for me to do so.”
“But a girl likes to hear such things. Please!”
“Will you forgive me for saying what I shouldn't say?”