“I'm mad, Annie,—I know I'm mad—and I don't think you can blame me.”
“I—I didn't ask you to come before eight, Dick.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? I suppose you told him to come at seven.”
“Now, Dick,—please—”
But he, not daring to trust his tongue, was angry and helpless before her. After a moment he turned away and stood looking out toward the lights of the schooner. Finally he said, in a strange voice, “I see I've been a fool—I thought you meant some of the things you've said—I ought to have known better; I ought to have known you were just fooling with me—you were just a flirt.”
He did not look around. Even if he had, the night would have concealed the color in her cheeks. But he heard her say, “I think perhaps—you had better go, Dick.”
He hesitated, then turned.
“Good night,” she said, and ran up the steps.
“Say—wait, Annie—”
The door closed behind her, and Dick stood alone. He waited, thinking she might come back, but the house was silent. He stepped back and looked up at her little balcony with its fringe of flowers, but it was deserted; no light appeared in the window. At last he turned away, and tramped out to the Merry Anne. The men were aboard, ready for an early start in the morning; the new mate was settling himself in the cabin. To Dick, as he stood on the pier and looked down on the trim little schooner, nothing appeared worth while. He leaped down to the deck, and thought savagely that he would have made the the same leap if the deck had not been there, if there had been fourteen feet of green water and a berth on the scalloped sand below. But there was one good thing—nothing could rob Dick of his sleep. And in his dreams Annie was always kind.