She was bitterly ashamed to have broken down before him—he who so hated tears and a scene.
She dried her eyes fiercely and tried to laugh.
"I don't often—cry, you know," she defended herself.
"I know you don't." Chris ran agitated fingers through his hair. "It was my fault. I hope you'll forgive me." He followed her and put an arm round her shoulders.
"Forgive me and forget it, Marie Celeste, will you?"
"It's all forgotten."
He laughed ruefully.
"You say that, but you don't mean it. And really it wasn't my fault this morning. I went out early and met Mrs. Heriot on the sands—I thought she never got up early. I swear to you that it was no fault of mine. I don't care for the woman. I've told you so, haven't I?"
"Yes." She could not explain that it was not ordinary jealousy of Mrs. Heriot that was breaking her heart, but jealousy of the fact that this woman could prove an amusing companion to him, whereas she herself was such a failure. The tears came again in spite of her efforts, and she pressed her hands hard over her eyes in a vain effort to restrain them. "Oh, if you would only go away!" she faltered wildly.
Chris turned away with an impatient sigh; he felt at fault because of his inability to comfort her; he went downstairs and hunted up Feathers.