So they pushed out; and at the moment when Dick and the Merry Anne were coasting along the bluffs above Grosse Pointe the Captain was skimming out on a long tack for the Lake View reef.
Little was said until they were entering on the second mile, then this from Beveridge, lounging on the windward rail, “Have you been thinking about our talk that evening, Annie?”
“Oh, dear!” thought she; but she said nothing.
“You haven't forgotten what I said?”
“Oh, the evening you came up for me?”
“Yes, and Smiley came later.”
“But you don't—you don't want me to think that you meant—”
“But I did, Annie. Do you remember I told you I thought I had a fair chance to be something in the world? Well, I'm nearer it than I thought, even then. There are a good many things I'm going to tell you some day,—not just yet,—but when you know them, you 'll understand why I've dared to talk this way. If I didn't believe I was going to be able to do for you all you could want, and more; if I didn't feel pretty sure I could help you to grow up away from this beach, to get into surroundings that will set you off as you deserve, I'd never have said a word. But I can do these things, Annie. And if I could only know that I had the right to do them for you—I want to take you away from here.”
“But I don't want to leave the beach.”
“I know—I think I understand just how you feel. It's natural—you were born here—you've never seen anything else. But I can't stay here, and I can't go without you. I can't get along anywhere without you.”