Involuntarily Rachel extended her hand; then her face went white. On the sheet that fluttered in his fingers she beheld the same childish chirography that had appeared on the scrap of paper on the beach. Her hand dropped.
"It's always the same," he went on, without noticing the change that had come over her. And seating himself on the tomb, he took out his pipe. Having filled it, he commenced to smoke, his eyes widely opened, full of profound thought, fixed on vacancy.
"Not that it makes any difference," he continued philosophically after a pause. "The world gets the benefit of the invention; as for me, I've plenty of other things in my head. I'm not crying over spilt milk," and he looked up at her and laughed while the shining returned to his glance. Reaching out toward her he tried to take her hand. This movement, while bold, was not destitute of an appealing grace. It was a mute reference to the kiss, to their changed relations; it was also a demand for sympathy.
At any other time Rachel would not have resisted it, but now she stepped out of his reach. "Who is it that informs you?" Her voice was implacable.
He hesitated. "The daughter of one of my employers," he said in a low tone. "She's stood by me from the first," he admitted. "She's been in fact a—little trump." And then he sighed.
Rachel turned away her head. "I should think you'd go to her at once," she said. "I don't see why you wait here. There's a train at six."
Disconcerted, he got to his feet. Their eyes locked. He glowered upon her.
"You might be able to protect your rights," she continued in a stinging voice. "Then I should think, on her account, if not on your mother's, you'd make the attempt."
She saw the visible pang the mention of his mother occasioned.
"I will," he cried, "I'll go." And he held out his hand.