“Oh, fie, sir! You seek a contradictory opinion.”
“You know I do not.”
“Nay, then perhaps you are not sure of it.” His simplicity and directness vexed her. She seemed strangely distraught by nervousness, and her manner was unnatural.
“You wound me, Mistress Dare.”
“Hast so much vanity?” she queried.
“And the wound,” he went on, disregarding her uncontrollable banter, “is not from your words, but manner more. Somehow the mere being with you brings me pain.”
“Our interview is of your own seeking, Master Vytal.”
“I had not thought,” he declared, in a tone almost angry, “that one with such a face, such a voice, could be so unkind,” and once more he started as if to go.
But she put out her hand with a detaining gesture. Her manner again grew serious, more like the deep, far-reaching, silent sea than its near-by surface, flurried by the ship.
“Oh, forgive me again! It seems as though I must ever ask forgiveness from you—from you to whom I owe so much. Believe me, there is a woman’s heart beneath all this—I have not said that to any man—’tis my reward to you—and the woman’s heart knows pity—that, too, is a reward—make what you can of it.” She was speaking tremulously now. “Only—remember—that hope is cruel—that a little pain may avert a deeper suffering—this was my intention—believe me, I pray thee believe, John Vytal—I am deeply grateful underneath the mask. Fate brought us together in a moment. And then you followed—followed, I suppose—” she hesitated, her breast heaving and tears gathering in her eyes.