He had heard aright. His hand reached for the wallet, that contained the letter from Lot & Company, but fell from it again.
“If you like,” he answered, “but I saw a beast die in the open boat—and saw a saint die——”
“You preach—preach—preach!” she cried, and her own points of view returned with greater intensity. “You’ve been kind—but, oh, you bore me so! You have been kind—but oh, don’t think you fail to make one pay the price! You were sunstruck, or crazed—and you come back preaching. I’m sick of you—just in my highest day, after the months of struggle—I hate you——”
Bellair heard a ship’s bell. It was dark about him—a cool, serene dark. The air fanned him softly and sweet; the place rocked—just for an instant, as if he were at sea.
“I hate you when you preach,” she finished. Her voice was softer. He knew she was smiling, but did not look at her face. She had delivered him. He was calm, and ineffably free, the circle finished.
“Oh, that we two were Maying——” he muttered, his thoughts far down the seas—remote and insular, serene and homing thoughts.
“It takes two to sing that,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But, I’m so sick of that——”
“You must have sung it many times,” he said.