“I am sorry, Miss Colton.”
“Sorry! You are not sorry! If you were you would do something, instead of sitting there as—as if you enjoyed it. I believe you do enjoy it. You are doing it purposely to—to—”
“To what, pray?”
“Never mind.”
“But I do mind. You have accused me of lying, Miss Colton, and of keeping you here purposely. What do you mean by it?”
“I mean that—that—Oh, you know what I mean! You hate me and you hate my father, and you are trying to—to punish us for—for—”
I had heard enough. I did not propose to hear any more.
“Miss Colton,” I interrupted, sternly, “stop! this is silly. I assure you that I am as anxious to end this—excursion—of ours as you can be. Your being afloat in Denboro Bay in a canoe was your own recklessness and not my fault. Neither was it my fault that the launch collided with your canoe. I called to you not to move, but to stay where you were. And, moreover, if you had permitted me to anchor when I first attempted to do so we should not be in this scrape. I shall get you out of it just as quick as I can. In order that I may do so I shall expect you to stop behaving like a child and do as I tell you. Sit down on that bench and keep still.”
This had the effect I meant it to. She looked at me as if she could not believe she had heard aright. But I met her gaze squarely, and, with a shudder of disgust, or fear, I do not know which, she turned her back upon me and was silent. I went forward to the cuddy, found the tin horn which, until that moment, I had forgotten, and, returning, blew strident blasts upon it at intervals. There was little danger of other craft being in our vicinity, but I was neglecting no precautions.
The bell at Crow Point sounded further and further astern. The twilight changed to dusk and the dusk to darkness. The fog was as thick as ever. It was nearly time for the tide to turn.