They stood silent, with only the dim stars and the cries of the peewits above the garden. The wind had died down again and all the leaves were still.
“Geoff,” said William at last, almost in a whisper, “is it Lucia?”
Geoffrey raised his eyes slowly. “You shall have the truth to-night, if you never have it again. To-night, there’s no honour in a lie. Yes.”
“I should have guessed. Since—Italy?”
“I do not know. Since we came here, something that slept seemed to wake. As the tide covers that beach there—I could not help it. I fought it. If she knows, it is not from any word of mine, Will.”
“You need not tell me that, thank God.”
Geoffrey groaned. “But it was no use, so I was going. I must go to-morrow.”
“Yes, you must go at once. I’m all at sea. Don’t think I’m not sorry. I’m so damnably sorry I don’t know what to say. This marrying and giving in marriage always costs something; I’d rather it had cost my right hand than you. Gad, this is a queer way of talk. I suppose I ought to want to murder you. But I love you and trust you, Geoff, to the hilt. And you’ll go to-morrow—?”
“Yes. I shall never come back.”
“So it is as bad as that? I hope Lucia guesses nothing. She is a tender-hearted child, and it would distress her terribly. This is a queer life, Geoff, and it will be a queer house without you somewhere about half the time. There’s always a price to pay.”