She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbena drooped her head.
“The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I—that monsieur—a man young, handsome, fascinating—the same ship—I have no chaperon—enfin——”
She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. Greyne to tears.
“Not a word,” he said. “You are right. The world is evil, and, as you say, I am a—not a word!”
He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne the world might attribute—Goodness gracious! What might not the militia think, for instance?
He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog.
They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbena, but she bade him go.
She whispered that she thought it “better” that they should not seem to—enfin!
“I will write to-morrow,” she murmured. “Au revoir!”
On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.