"They'd all like to go," said Mr. Aiken. "They've been hoping for excitement all day, sir."
"Ten will be quite enough," said my father.
"What is it you are saying?" Mademoiselle asked sharply.
"Quite nothing," he replied, "except that we are going back."
His arm must have given him a twinge, for his face had grown very white.
"Surely you have done enough," she said, and her voice became a soft entreaty. "Here we are on board your ship. If I told you I was not entirely sorry, would you not go on? If I told you, captain, I did not care about the paper—?"
My father waved his hand in graceful denial.
"Not go back? Ah, Mademoiselle," he added in grave rebuke, "can it be possible after all, in spite of all this—let us say regrettable melodrama—you are forgetting I am the villain of this piece, and not a very pleasant one? Even if I wished, my lady, my sense of hospitality would forbid it. My brother-in-law is waiting for me under my roof tonight, and I could not leave him alone. He would be disappointed, I feel sure, and so would I. I have had a strenuous evening. I need recreation now. Load the pistols, Brutus."
And he fell silent again, his eyes on the blank wall before him, his fingers playing with his glass.
The Sea Tern had need to be a fast ship, and she lived up to requirements. The easterly wind sent her lightly before it, cutting sheer and quick through the roughened sea. With his arm in a sling of white linen, my father sat motionless, apparently passive and regardless of the flight of time. It was only when we veered in the wind and orders were shouted from forward that he looked about him.