"I don't need any amusing when I'm with you," he said. "You're all-sufficing."
"You mustn't say things like that, Raoul," she replied; "they're apt to make one's decisions wobble."
For Pansy the morning sped quickly. For Le Breton it was part of the dream he had dreamt before her note had come and upset his calculations, making him rearrange his plans in a manner that, although it would give him a certain amount of satisfaction, might not be so pleasing to the girl.
The vessel skirted the rounded island, bringing glimpses of quiet bays where white houses nestled, rocky cliffs, stony barrancos cut deep into the hill-side, and pine-clad heights.
There was a lunch à deux, with attentive stewards hovering in the background. Afterwards they had coffee and liqueurs and cigarettes on deck. An hour or so was dawdled away there, then Pansy took her guest back to her own special sanctum.
He went over to the piano, touching a note here and there.
"Play me something," she said, for he touched the instrument with the hand of a music lover.
"I was brought up in the backwoods," he replied, "and I never saw a piano until I was nearly nineteen. After that I was too busy making money and doing what I thought was enjoying myself to have time to go in for anything of the sort. But I'd like to listen to you," he finished.
Willingly Pansy seated herself at the piano. Le Breton likewise sat himself in a deep chair close by, and gave himself up to the delight of her playing. She wandered from one song to another, quick to see she had an appreciative audience.
In the end she paused and glanced at him as he sat quiet, all his restless look gone, as if at peace with himself and the world.