“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very
handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.”
“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was
pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were
engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If
you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t
posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I
feel better now.”
The lie sailed straight to its mark.
“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was
trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?”
“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the
hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high
when you’re not alone in the boat.”
The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its
poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the
hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with
three dazzling beams.
“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough.
Joan thrilled to her core.
“You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have
tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.”
“By Jove, yes,” said the man violently.
They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence.