"Is it nothing to you," he cried in a rush, "that when the time came I couldn't do it? The yacht's breaking down had nothing in the world to do with it. I had already decided to turn back, to break my promise. That the--accident happened just then was only a wretched chance. I was going to put about at that moment." She hesitated almost imperceptibly, seemed for a brief second to waver. But perhaps she dared not let herself believe him now: perhaps the strongest wish of her heart was to hurt him as deeply as she could. "To say the least," she said with a little deliberate movement of distaste, "your coincidences are unfortunate. You--won't mind if I go on being grateful to the--_gear_?" Under that crowning taunt, his self-restraint snapped like an overstretched bow-string. "You shall not say that. You shall not. Miss Carstairs, you _know_ I could have kept you on the yacht if I had wanted to. You _know_ how I gave the order to put about and bring you back to Hunston. Did I look in the least then like a man whose hopes and plans had been ruined? You know I did not. You know I said to you that I--I was the happiest man in America. Will you tell me what on earth that could mean--except that I had decided to give up a thing that has been a millstone around my neck ever since--I met you?" She made no reply, did not look at him. The dusk shadowed her eyes; and whether her silence meant good or ill he could not tell. "You cannot answer, you see. We both know why. You will not be fair to me, Miss Carstairs. It is that night in the Academy box-office over again. Because I _had_ to deceive you once--not for my own sake--you will not look at the plain facts. But in your heart--just like that other night--_I know you believe me."_ Of course she could not let that pass now. "I do not!" she said. "I do not. I must ask you, please, not to keep me here any longer." Varney's face went a shade paler. Arguing about his own veracity was even less bearable than he had thought; his manner all at once became singularly quiet. "The merest moment, if you will. I can prove what I say," he answered slowly, "but of course I won't do that. You must believe what _I_ say, believe _me_. Nothing else matters but that.... Don't you know that it took a very strong reason to make me break faith with my old friend, your father--to make me stand here begging to be believed, like this? You have only to look at me, I think. Don't you know that I couldn't possibly deceive you now ... after what has happened to me?" "I don't know what you mean. I don't understand. Don't tell me. Nothing has happened ..." "Everything has happened," he said still more quietly. "I've fallen crazily in love with you." She did not lift her eyes; neither moved nor spoke; gave no sign that she had heard. He went on slowly: