He looked relieved. "Well, that's just it. That's just what I thought."
He colored more deeply, with a hectic spot in each cheek. "Life isn't
all beer and skittles to me, don't you know--and you'd be the kind of
thing I haven't got, don't you know?" He leaned toward her beseechingly.
"Do you see now?"
"I think I do. You mean that we'd mutually take care of each other."
"Well, that's what it would amount to--not to say any more about my
being so awfully fond of you. You won't forget that."
She smiled through her tears. "Oh no; I'm not likely to forget it. I
wish I could tell you--"
But she broke off because she could say no more, struggling to her feet.
He agreed to her request that she should have time to think his proposal
over, and also that he should let her return alone to the hotel,
remaining in the shelter with the crooning child long after she had gone
away.
But once she was out in the wind again she found it difficult to give
the matter concentrated thought. Much as she had been moved while he
talked to her, the emotion seemed to be blown away by the strong air of
reality. It was like the crying in which she had sometimes indulged
herself at a play, and which left no aftermath of sadness. She could
hardly tell what aftermath had been left by Noel Ordway's words; but as
far as she could judge it had everything in it to touch her and appeal
to her, except the possible. And yet so much that was impossible had
happened to her already, who knew but that the next incredible thing
would be that she should become mistress of Foljambe Park? Why not?
Since the haven was open to her, and Chip had left the poor little craft
of her life to toss in a sea too strong for it, why not creep into any
refuge that would receive her? She would certainly be driven sooner or
later into some such port--then why not into this?
She hurried homeward between the thundering breakers on the one hand and
the tossing palms on the other, her mind in a state of storm. In the
garden, as she passed toward the hotel, she saw Miss Chesley with the
children, but she couldn't stop and speak to them. She hurried. She
wanted the protection of her room, of quiet, of the accessories to
mental peace. Perhaps when she got these she should be able to
think--and decide; so she hurried on.
To avoid the main hall, where people might speak to her, she took the
short cut through the sun-pavilion, which would bring her nearer to the
stairs. But on throwing open the door she stood still on the threshold
with a little soundless gasp. "Oh!"
He came toward her sedately, the glimmer of a smile on the stamped
gravity of his face. "I took the liberty of waiting for you. I couldn't
bring myself to go back to Cap d'Ail without knowing how you were."
As he held her hand he seemed to bend over her with what she had already
described to herself as a brooding concern. She knew she was blushing
foolishly and that her knees were trembling under her; and yet,
curiously enough, the little craft of her life seemed suddenly to find
itself in quiet waters, ranged round by protecting hills. She was
confused and sorry and glad and afraid all in one instant. Nothing but
the habit of the hostess, which was so strong in her, enabled her to
capture a conventional tone and say the obvious thing:
"I'm so glad you waited. Won't you sit down, and let me ring for tea?"