She did not withdraw her hand, but he felt that it lay cold and still in his clasp. She was a long time in replying.
“Of course you’ll go, Arthur, but—not so soon! I couldn’t go so soon! It seems too horribly hasty, as if I were in such a hurry to get married that I couldn’t wait for any kind of dignity and ceremony!”
“It’s I who am in a hurry,” he rejoined quickly. “My darling, I can’t feel secure! I keep thinking that you don’t really love me, and that you’ll slip off and leave me at the eleventh hour.”
She laughed softly, a little tenderly. The warmth of his affection seemed to enfold her in such a new security that she could not understand what seemed to be, on his part, a haunting fear.
“I’m not like that, Arthur. I’ve always tried to be rather a loyal person, dear; but I don’t like haste—in weddings!”
“But you must in ours,” he pleaded. “The ship can sail so much sooner. I mean that it shall never sail without you, Diane! You don’t want to make me more unhappy than I am?”
She withdrew herself a little from his embrace, looking up into his face with serious eyes.
“Are you unhappy?” Then something that she saw there moved her deeply. “Arthur, you’re not well! What’s wrong? Tell me!”
He hesitated; then he thought of using her evident anxiety to further his purpose.
“I’m sick for the sea, dear, and to be off again—finishing the work. Every day of delay tells on me; but I vow I sha’n’t go without you!”