"No," I said, "I am not glad."
"Not glad? Surely you are glad it has ended so. Surely you are glad your father—"
"No," I said, and my voice was so much louder than I had intended that the sound of it in the quiet room made me stop abruptly. She looked up at me, a little startled.
"At least Monsieur is frank," she said. "Do you know—have you thought that you are the only one of us who has been wholly so, who has not had something to conceal? Pray go on, Monsieur. It is pleasant to hear someone who is frank again. Continue! You must be glad for something. Every cloud must have—do you not say—a silver lining? If it is not your father—surely you are glad about me?"
She made a graceful little gesture of interrogation.
"Come, come," she went on, "You are not yourself tonight. Never have I seen you look so black. Think, Monsieur! The men are on deck and the wind is fair. Soon I shall be going. Soon you will forget."
"No," I said, "Mademoiselle is mistaken. I shall not forget."
"Nor I," she said gravely, "I wonder, Monsieur, if you understand—but you cannot understand what it has meant to me. I have tried to tell you once before, but you are cold, like your father. I have seen many men who have said gallant things, but only you two of all I know have done them."
"I have done nothing," I said. "You know I have done nothing."
"But it has not been your fault," she answered. "And was it nothing to protect a stranger from a strange land, when you had nothing to gain from it and everything to lose?"