For the fraction of a second, their glances met. Then she turned away and a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach, fell between them.
When at last he spoke his voice was low—imperative.
"Marcia—come here!"
She went—she knew not why.
"Give me your hand."
Again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed.
He took it in his and bending, kissed it.
"I will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said.
She sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in the tension.