“You are the fortune,” said Wylie. She shook her head.
“That sounds very nice, but it isn’t true. My fortune is that I have Maurice for a brother. That’s all you care about. You know quite well it was not until you found you would lose him that you changed your mind about giving me up. But don’t think I mind. I am glad that any one should appreciate him properly. Oh, there’s the whistle! I must go—and leave you to think of Maurice.”
“Come here first.” She approached incautiously, and found her hands seized. “Now tell me whether you really believe I care more about Maurice than you?”
“You will make me keep the boat waiting. I think you like me nearly as much as Maurice, you know; well, almost—quite—as much. Oh, you are hurting my wrists!”
“Only when you try to pull your hands away. No, go on, that’s not enough. I am not going to be libelled by you, at any rate, whatever Europe may say. Maurice is my friend, and you think I care for you just about as much as for him?”
“Well, perhaps a little differently, you know.”
“Only differently—not more? And you are satisfied?”
“I am. But I shouldn’t be if I believed it.”
Her hands had lain passive in Wylie’s, and she twisted them dexterously away and hurried down the steps, laughing and blushing. She knew he could not follow her, but he succeeded in reaching the top of the steps, and his “Just wait till next time!” met her as she turned to wave him farewell. The flag-lieutenant found it absolutely useless to speak of politics to her during the return voyage.
It was like coming out of the sunshine into cold shadow to return to Skandalo. As soon as she entered the house, Dr Terminoff, who was in charge of Maurice during the absence of the fleet, hurried out to meet her.