There was a little pause. She gazed out towards the sea. To the right, a headland jutted out into its blueness. Sea-gulls circled in the quiet air, tiny specks in the distance. Boats, white and red sailed, made lazy way with the tide.
Suddenly she turned impulsively towards him.
“I fancy,” said she, “that I’m going to tell you something.”
“Do!” said he, his eyes upon her.
“You’ll laugh.”
“Not a smile even.”
“Hmm!” she debated. “An over-dose of seriousness might be even worse to face than laughter.”
“This is not fair,” protested John. “I can’t measure a smile to the hundredth part of an inch. I can, at least, promise not to mock at you. Won’t that do?”
She laughed.
“Yes; I believe it will. Well, it’s this.” Her voice dropped to seriousness. “I have a quite unreasoning feeling that we shan’t leave here after all. I can’t explain the feeling, and I am fully aware of the almost absurdity of it. I haven’t spoken of it to any one else. I can’t tell my grandmother, or Father Maloney. It might raise a faint hope which reason tells me will be doomed to disappointment. And yet—well, it seems almost that if one could only stretch out one’s hand a little way, through a kind of fog, one would find the key to the whole riddle. It must sound absurd to you, of course.”