Her poor little commonplace attempt to open the conversation met with disastrous failure. Farr muttered inattentively "Yes, indeed," and relapsed into silence again.
In the long pause that ensued the monotonous splash of the waves against the rocks below sounded deliciously cool and refreshing. A rowboat shot out from the pier, skimming the darkened waters under the lea of the shore.
Farr drew nearer to Jean and spoke with deep earnestness:
"We cannot take up the thread of the past, Miss Jean, with this constraint between us, but I am not willing to let it go without an attempt at an explanation. Will you not tell me what I have done to have forfeited your friendship?"
Jean's head was bent, her few words of dissent almost inaudible. Farr interrupted her in a voice that was both pained and stern.
"Please don't deny it. I cannot have forfeited the right to your honesty. Did I presume too much on your great kindness to me, Jean?"
"No, oh no!" she cried hastily, with a little break in her voice. "Indeed you must not think that."
A man's step approached them, and stopped at Jean's side.
"Miss Lawrence," Maynard's voice said, "the next waltz is ours. Shall I find you here?"
"Why, certainly," she replied with a forced laugh. "I shall not vanish."