She said at last, pleasantly, but in a serious tone:
“I have been reflecting on your discourse. If ironical, it was unkind. If sincere, it was–not impertinent perhaps, but certainly not justified by our short acquaintance.”
“True: and I beg your pardon. But was it correct?”
Something in her manner invited a discontinuance of that particular topic. He drew an attenuated hand across his mouth, changed his position, as if on the point of saying more; but he held his peace.
Some minutes later, when Miss Marshall’s maid approached this silent couple, her progress, owing to the movement of the deck, consisted of rapid little runs followed by sudden pauses, during which she hung with one hand to the rail and with the other clutched her hat. She had come up to ask if her mistress needed anything. Was she warm enough? Would she have another wrap? Miss Marshall needed nothing herself, but asked for news of Mr. Appleton Marshall, and if Father Burke was feeling better. Louise had seen nothing of Mr. Marshall since dinner, but she had left Father Burke reclining in the main saloon, not very sick, nor very well, but lower in his mind. As her maid departed, the lady expressed sympathy for the suffering uncle. “And poor Father Burke! He is terribly uncomfortable, I am sure.”
“Yes,” said Pats. “I saw in his face a look of uncertainty: the wavering faith that comes from meals with an upward tendency.”
43Pats thought this want of sympathy was resented.
“He is a most lovable man,” she said, “of fine character, and with a splendid mind. You would like him if you knew him better.”
Here was his opportunity; his chance for a rescue. He would snatch her from the clutches of the Romish Brute. A few stabs in the monster’s vitals might accomplish wonders. So he answered, sadly, in a tone of brotherly affection: