They went down to the sh.o.r.e shortly after, and embarked in Quiller's boat. Mab sat in the stern under a scarlet sunshade and talked gaily to her two companions. She was greatly amused when Merefleet insisted upon doing his share of the work.

"I love to see you doing the galley-slave," she said. "I know you hate it, you poor old Bear."

But Merefleet did not hate his work. He sat facing her throughout the afternoon, gazing to his heart's content on the perfect picture before him. He wore his hands to blisters, and the sun beat mercilessly down upon him. But he felt neither weariness nor impatience, neither regret nor surliness.

A magic touch had started the life in his veins; the revelation of a wandering searchlight had transformed his sordid world into a palace of delight. He accepted the fact without question. He had no wish to go either forward or backward.

The blue sea and the blue sky, and the distant, shining sh.o.r.e. These were what he had often longed for in the rush and tumult of a great, unresting city. But in the foreground of his picture, beyond desire and more marvellous than imagination, was the face of the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

CHAPTER VII

There was no wandering alone on the quay for Merefleet that night. It was very warm and he sat on the terrace with his American friend. Far away over at New Silverstrand, a band was playing, and the music came floating across the harbour with the silvery sweetness which water imparts. The lights of the new town were very bright. It looked like a dream-city seen from afar.

"I guess we are just a couple of Peris shut outside," said Mab in her brisk, unsentimental voice. "I like it best outside, don't you, Big Bear?"

"Yes," said Merefleet, with a simplicity that provoked her mirth.

"Oh, aren't you just perfect!" she said. "You've done me no end of good.

I'd pay you back if I could."

Merefleet was silent. He could not see her beautiful face, but her words touched him inexplicably.

There was a long pause. Then, to his great surprise, a warm little hand slipped on to his knee in the darkness and a voice, so small that he hardly recognised it, said humbly:

"Mr. Merefleet, I'm real sorry."

Merefleet started a little.

"Good heavens! Why?" he said.

"Sorry you disapprove of me," she said, with a little break in her voice.

"Bert used to be the same. But he's different now. He knows I wasn't made prim and proper."

She paused. Merefleet's hand was on her own. He sat in silence, but somehow his silence was kind.

She went on. "I wasn't going to speak last night. Only you looked so melancholy at dinner. And then I thought p'r'aps you were lonely, like I am. I didn't find out till afterwards that you didn't like the way I talked."

"Do you know you make me feel a most objectionable cad?" said Merefleet.

"Oh, no, you aren't that," she hastened to a.s.sure him. "I'm positive you aren't that. It was my fault. I spoke first. I thought you looked real sad. And I always want to hearten up sad folks. You see I've been there, and I know what it is."

"You!" said Merefleet.

Did he hear a sob in the darkness beside him? He fancied so. The hand that lay beneath his own twitched as if agitated.

"What do you know about trouble?" said Merefleet.

She did not answer him. Only he heard a long, hard sigh. Then she laughed rather mirthlessly.

"Well," she said, "there aren't many things in this world worth crying for. You've had enough of me, I guess. It's time I shunted."

She tried to withdraw her hand, but Merefleet's hold tightened.

"No, no. Not yet," he said, almost as if he were pleading with her. "I've behaved abominably. But don't punish me like this!"

She laughed again and yielded.

"You ought to know your own mind by now," she said, with something of her former briskness. "It's a rum world, Mr. Merefleet."

"It isn't the world," said Merefleet. "It's the people in it. Now, Miss Ward, I have a favour to ask. Promise me that you will never again imagine for a moment that I am not pleased--more, honoured--when you are good enough to stop by the way and speak to me. Of your charity you have stooped to pity my loneliness. And, believe me, I do most sincerely appreciate it."

"My!" she said. "That's the nicest thing you've said yet. Yes, I promise that. You're real kind, do you know? You make me feel miles better."

She drew her hand gently away. Merefleet was trying to discern her features in the darkness.

"Are you really lonely, I wonder?" he said. "Or is that a figure of speech?"

"It's solid fact," she said. "But, never mind me! Let's talk of something nicer."

"No, thanks!" Merefleet could be obstinate when he liked. "Unless you object, I prefer to talk about you."

She laughed a little, but said nothing.

"I want to know what makes you lonely," he said. "Don't tell me, of course, if there is any difficulty about it!"

"No," she responded coolly. "I won't. But I guess I'm lonely for much the same reason that you are."

"I have never been anything else since I became a man," said Merefleet.

"Ah!" she said. "I might say the same. Fact is"--she spoke with sudden startling emphasis--"I ought to be dead. And I'm not. That's my trouble in a nutsh.e.l.l."

"Great heavens, child!" Merefleet exclaimed, with an involuntary start.

"Don't talk like that!"

"Why not?" she asked innocently. "Is it wrong?"

"It isn't literal truth, you know," he answered gravely. "You will not persuade me that it is."

"I'm no judge then," she said, with a note of recklessness in her voice.

"You have your cousin," Merefleet pointed out, feeling that he was on uncertain ground, yet unaccountably anxious to prove it. "You are not utterly alone while he is with you."

She uttered a shrill little laugh. "Why," she said, "I believe you think I'm in love with Bert."