For a moment or two more she was silent. Then her hand reached out, and her fingers twined softly round his thumb again. "Jeems—when we are safe—when we are sure the Police won't find us—I will tell you all that I know—about what happened in Kedsty's room. And I will tell you—about—the hair. I will tell you—everything." Her fingers tightened almost fiercely. "Everything," she repeated. "I will tell you about that in Kedsty's room—and I will tell you about myself—and after that—I am afraid—you won't like me."
"I love you," he said, making no movement to touch her. "No matter what you tell me, Gray Goose, I shall love you."
She gave a little cry, scarcely more than a broken note in her throat, and Kent—had her face been turned toward him then—would have seen the glory that came into it, and into her eyes, like a swift flash of light—and passed as swiftly away.
What he did see, when she turned her head, were eyes caught suddenly by something at the cabin door. He looked. Water was trickling in slowly over the sill.
"I expected that," he said cheerfully. "Our scow is turning into a rain-barrel, Marette. Unless I bail out, we'll soon be flooded."
He reached for his slicker and put it on. "It won't take me long to throw the water overboard," he added. "And while I'm doing that I want you to take OFF your wet things and tuck yourself into bed. Will you, Gray Goose?"
"I'm not tired, but if you think it is best—" Her hand touched his arm.
"It is best," he said, and for a moment he bent over her until his lips touched her hair.
Then he seized a pail, and went out into the rain.