Norah had counted on a painful reception of her words—prayers, protests, despair. It had not occurred to her that she might be met with blank incredulity.
'My dearest child,' he said, 'you're mad.'
She wanted to tell him that outside the natives she was the only sane person in the bay, but he would not listen.
'You're nervy,' he said. 'I don't wonder. I was nervy myself yesterday. I imagined all sorts of rubbish about Sinclair.'
'I'm going back to Archie,' she managed to put in.
'Yesterday I thought he'd got something up his sleeve,' Dick went on without seeming to hear her, 'but I know I was wrong. I think he's behaved jolly well. He doesn't mean to interfere with us in any way. Of course it's rough on him, but that is life.'
Dick's mercurial temper had asserted itself. Starvation, death, violence seemed very far away. His sky was clear.
'Oh, do listen!' cried Norah.
She was getting hysterical, he thought. No wonder, either. But he must not give way to her fancies. He kept up a steady flow of reassurance. When at last the stream ran dry—
'Dick, listen,' she spoke very slowly, dividing the syllables. 'I've—told—Archie—I'll—go—back—to him.'