"'If they be not fair to me, what care I how fair they be,'" he paraphrased, springing to his feet and keeping step beside her.
"Really, that won't do," she said; "much moonlight and Gladys and the Minster twins convict you. Do you remember that I told you one day in early summer—that Sheila and Dorothy and Gladys would mark you for their own? Oh, my inconstant courtier, they are yonder!—And I absolve you. Adieu!"
"Do you remember what I told you—one day in early summer?" he returned coolly.
Her heart began its absurd beating again—but now there was no trace of pain in it—nothing of apprehension in the echo of the pulse either.
"You protested so many things, Captain Selwyn—"
"Yes; and one thing in particular. You've forgotten it, I see." And he looked her in the eye.
"No," she said, "you are wrong. I have not forgotten."
"Nor I."
He halted, looking out over the shining breakers. "I'm glad you have not forgotten what I said; because, you see, I'm forbidden to repeat it. So I shall be quite helpless to aid you in case your memory fails."
"I don't think it will fail," she said, looking at the flashing sea. A curious tingling sensation of fright had seized her—something entirely unknown to her heretofore. She spoke again because frightened; the heavy, hard pulse in breast and throat played tricks with her voice and she swallowed and attempted to steady it: "I—if—if I ever forget, you will know it as soon as I do—"