"What!"
Almost strangled she wrenched herself free, panting, staring; and he realised his mistake.
"We can't get a licence if we leave to-night," he said, breathing heavily. "But we can touch at any port and manage that."
"You—you would take me—permit me to go—in such a manner?" she breathed, still staring at him.
"It's necessity, isn't it? Didn't you propose it? It makes no difference to me, Strelsa. I told you I'd do anything you wished."
"What did you mean—what did you mean by—by—" But she could go no further in speech or thought.
"The thing to do," he said calmly, "is not to fly off our heads or become panic-stricken. You're doing the latter; I lost control of myself—after what you gave me to hope—after what you said—showing your trust in me," he added, moistening his thick dry lips with his tongue. "I lost my self-command—because I am crazy for you, Strelsa—there's no sense in pretending otherwise—and you knew it all the time, you little coquette!
"What do you think a man's made of? You wanted a business arrangement and I humoured you; but you knew all the while, and I knew, that—that I am infatuated, absolutely mad about you." He added, boldly: "And I have reason to think it doesn't entirely displease you, haven't I?"
She did not seem to hear him. He laid his gloved hand over hers, and recoiled before her eyes as from a blow.
"Are you angry?" he asked.