“Very much so.”
“Then I hope I shall be rich.”
Mr. Buel did not answer. He stared gloomily down at the water lapping the iron side of the motionless steamer. The frown on his brow was deep. Miss Jessop looked at him for a moment out of the corners of her eyes. Then she said, impulsively—
“I know that was mean. I apologise. I told you I did not like to apologise, so you may know how sorry I am. And, now that I have begun, I also apologise for all the flippant things I have said during the voyage, and for my frightful mendacity to poor Mr. Hodden, who sits there so patiently and picturesquely waiting for the terrible reporters. Won’t you forgive me?”
Buel was not a ready man, and he hesitated just the smallest fraction of a second too long.
“I won’t ask you twice, you know,” said Miss Jessop, drawing herself up with dignity.
“Don’t—don’t go!” cried the young man, with sudden energy, catching her hand. “I’m an unmannerly boor. But I’ll risk everything and tell you the trouble. I don’t care a—I don’t care whether you are rich or poor. I—”
Miss Jessop drew away her hand.
“Oh, there’s the boat, Mr. Buel, and there’s my papa on the upper deck.”
She waved her handkerchief in the air in answer to one that was fluttering on the little steamer. Buel saw the boat cutting a rapid semicircle in the bay as she rounded to, leaving in her wake a long, curving track of foam. She looked ridiculously small compared with the great ship she was approaching, and her deck seemed crowded.