“You had better tell him at once that you are happy.”
He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and concise “Yes.”
A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had happened.
“Ah,” he said. “You mind . . . ”
“No! I think I had better,” she murmured.
“I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. Stop nowhere.”
She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself:
“Where could he want to stop though?”
“There’s not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him,” she said extending her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, “but you—Roderick.”
He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm.