Then Brandon Pomfrett found his voice. “Surely you’re not coming with us?” he said to Captain Morgan.
Morgan turned and looked at him. Even Brandon might have understood her glance. She turned away again without a word, and La Modeste, with every stitch of canvas set and drawing, sprang forward, heading north.
XI
The Little Cruise of La Modeste
The situation was sufficiently delicate. Pomfrett drew me to the port side of the little quarterdeck. Morgan Leroux leaned on the starboard rail, having her back towards us.
“Look here,” said the owners’ agent, “this isn’t what I meant at all. This will never do. It’s impossible. Why did she come?”
“Well, for one thing, you would never have passed Murch’s ship going out of harbour, if it hadn’t been for Morgan Leroux,” I answered.
“Who commands this ship, do you suppose?” returned the supercargo.
“You must ask the lady.”
“But how can she sail with us—or we with her?”
“Too late to enquire, is it not?”