He hastily rebuttoned his coat, and turned his face seaward once more. But he heard her voice, and was obliged to come close to her that he might catch the words. "You have given me your wraps," she said, with difficulty. "You will suffer." "Not at all. You have your own rug, and one that the captain provided. I keep myself quite warm with moving about." There was a pause. His mind began to fill with alarm. He was not of the men who act a part with ease; but, having got through so far, he had calculated on preserving his secret. Flight was best, and he was just turning away when a gesture of hers arrested him. Again he stooped till their faces were near enough to let her voice reach him. "Why are you in evening-dress?" "I had intended to dine with a friend. There was not time to change." "Then you did not mean to cross to-night?" He delayed a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "Not when I dressed for dinner, but some sudden news decided me." Her head fell back wearily against the support behind it. The eyes closed, and he, thinking she would perhaps sleep, was about to rise from his seat, when the pressure of her hand upon his arm detained him. He sat still and the hand was withdrawn. There was a lessening of the roar in their ears. Under the lee of the English shore the wind was milder, the "terror-music" of the sea less triumphant. And over everything was stealing the first discriminating touch of the coming light. Her face was clear now; and Delafield, at last venturing to look at her, saw that her eyes were open again, and trembled at their expression. There was in them a wild suspicion. Secretly, steadily, he nerved himself to meet the blow that he foresaw. "Mr. Delafield, have you told me all the truth?" She sat up as she spoke, deadly pale but rigid. With an impatient hand she threw off the wraps which had covered her. Her face commanded an answer. "Certainly I have told you the truth." "Was it the whole truth? It seems--it seems to me that you were not prepared yourself for this journey--that there is some mystery--which I do not understand--which I resent!" "But what mystery? When I saw you, I of course thought of Evelyn's telegram." "I should like to see that telegram." He hesitated. If he had been more skilled in the little falsehoods of every day he would simply have said that he had left it at the hotel. But he lost his chance. Nor at the moment did he clearly perceive what harm it would do to show it to her. The telegram was in his pocket, and he handed it to her. There was a dim oil-lamp in the shelter. With difficulty she held the fluttering paper up and just divined the words. Then the wind carried it away and blew it overboard. He rose and leaned against the edge of the shelter, looking down upon her. There was in his mind a sense of something solemn approaching, round which this sudden lull of blast and wave seemed to draw a "wind-warm space," closing them in.