He looked up. His face was without expression.
“And so, Miss Gilmore—this is your confession?”
She nodded.
“And also your answer to my suggestion about our little cruise?”
Again she nodded.
“So!” He turned back to the ragged mosaic of heavy note-paper, and slowly he read aloud:—
“‘I can no longer keep my secret from you. I am really a married woman. Further, my husband is very jealous. He may be back any time. I must be most discreet.’”
Morton raised his gray eyes to her; and then suddenly his strong, worldly face softened into a smile.
“My dear, what a little fool you are! This is nothing to make such a fuss about. Your being married doesn’t necessarily make the slightest difference to me—and I’m sure the Caribbean winds will be just as soothing—and that the moonlight will be just as soft. The yacht will be ready next Thursday.”
He tried to slip an arm about her. But she evaded him, and spoke quietly.