Mrs. Fairhew's face softened, for no true woman could have heard the passion of his voice unmoved; but she laughed at the sudden change with which he ended.
"I hope you may succeed," she said softly. "I think you will." Then she took his arm again, and spoke in her ordinary voice: "Come, we must go in."
"Now, then, Jack, in the name of heaven," demanded Jerry, as soon as he and the captain were out of hearing of the ladies, "what is this awful josh of yours about leaving the yacht?"
"I'll tell you when we get aboard," his friend answered. "Don't bother me now; I'm thinking."
Tab snorted contemptuously, and in silence the pair held on until they reached the quay. The cutter awaited them, and still in silence they were pulled out to the Merle. There was not a breath of wind now; the stars blazed brilliantly above them, and not a cloud-blot was to be seen. In a stillness broken only by the rhythmical oar-strokes the pair watched the myriad star-points which dotted the heavens as they had adorned it centuries before when old Nice was new Nicæa, and some brown Sicilian pilot may have gazed up at them and made haven by their faithful guidance.
No sooner were they aboard than Gonzague came to ask if they would have supper.
"Oh, I don't know," Jack answered, still in a dream from the spell of Mrs. Fairhew's words.
"Well, I do," put in Jerry. "We'll have some caviare sandwiches, Gonzague, and a glass of sherry."
The supper was eaten almost in silence, and it was not until Gonzague had taken away the things and left them with pipes lighted that the inevitable explanation was reached.
"Now then?" said Tab impatiently.