'I have a shrewd suspicion that it is with Smithson as with poor Lady Kirkbank.'
'Do you mean that he is ill?'
'Precisely.'
'What, on a calm summer night, sailing over a sea of glass. The owner of a yacht!'
'Rather ignominious for poor Smithson, isn't it? But men who own yachts are only mortal, and are sometimes wretched sailors. Smithson is feeble on that point, as I know of old.'
'Then wasn't it rather cruel of us to sail his yacht?'
'Yachts are meant for sailing, and again, sea-sickness is supposed to be a wholesome exercise.'
'Good-night.'
'Good-night,' both good nights in Spanish, and with a touch of tenderness which the words could hardly have expressed in English.
'Must you really go?' pleaded Montesma, holding her hand just a thought longer than he had ever held it before.