“I don't know . . . Unless—”
“Unless what?”
I closed my lips on the words that were on the tip of my tongue. That reason was more impossible than all else.
“Nothing,” I stammered.
She did not repeat her question. I saw her face, a dainty silhouette against the foam alongside, turned away from me. I gazed at it until I dared gaze no longer. Was I losing my senses altogether? I—Ros Paine—the man whose very name was not his own? I must not think such thoughts. I scarcely dared trust myself to speak and yet I knew that I must. This silence was too dangerous. I took refuge in a commonplace.
“We are getting into smoother water,” I said. “It is not as rough as it was, do you think?”
If she heard the remark she ignored it. She did not turn to look at me. After a moment she said, in a low voice:
“I can't understand.”
I supposed her to be still thinking of our meeting in the fog.
“I cannot understand myself,” I answered. “I presume it was a coincidence, like our meeting at the pond.”