The wind and rain had stung Diana’s cheeks to a vivid colour and she wore a blue hood drawn over her hair and wore it as St. Jermyn had thought only an Irishwoman could wear it. He found her distractingly pretty.
“Still on the island? He must be frightfully wet,” she said.
“And very hungry,” he added.
“Oh—yes, perhaps—” Hunger she knew would not be the worst thing he had to bear. “But some one must fetch him.”
“Yes, some one must fetch him. We forgot him, which is a thing I should not have thought I could possibly have done, whatever the others might do. The storm may clear off at any moment. They do in these parts as suddenly as they come up.”
“But if it doesn’t clear up?”
St. Jermyn looked at her—then out to sea and back again to her.
“If you want him to be fetched I will fetch him—for you.”
“Why for me?”
“Because you want some one to go and I want to please you—is that reason enough?”