But Saturday of this week had slipped by and neither had spoken of a repetition. Emily had waited for Paul to say something. He had waited for her. Yet now he noted as she went forward that there was a bit of ribbon in her hair. And she had observed that morning when he had come on deck to relieve her at 10 o'clock that he was freshly shaven.
Of a sudden Emily paused in the midst of her "picnic" preparations, her mind stumbling upon the strangest thought that had yet come to her of Paul's inexplicable mood.
"Can there be another woman in his life?" whispered this thought.
Instantly there came to her mind the night on the Isle of Hope when she had heard him murmur in unconsciousness of a woman to whom he would soon come home.
She remembered that she had even prayed for this woman.
"Cherchez la femme." Nothing was truer than that. Always the woman. Her thoughts went wild. They began picturing the sort of woman who might have come into his life and who might be coming back into it. No; she would never come back into it, for if she had let him go when the blow fell, he was not the kind to let her back. Still love moved men in strange ways.
It was a sorry picnic that was spread on the Daphne's deck. It came to an end at 2 o'clock when Paul turned the wheel over to Emily and started forward with the dishes they had used.
"I think I shall break out some coal for the donkey," he announced.
"But it's Sunday, you know," said Emily, making a brave effort to smile. There was an invitation in her glance for him to remain, but he would not see it.
"And you've forgotten your sailor's litany," he answered: