"Left--for the north," she repeated. There was a long silence. At length she turned to Minot, a queer light in her eyes. "Of course, you'll go after him and bring him back?" she asked. "No." Minot bowed his head. "I know I must have looked rather silly of late. But if you think I did the things I've done because I chose to--you're wrong. If you think I did them because I didn't love you--you're wrong, too. Oh, I--" "Mr. Minot!" "I can't help it. I know it's indecently soon--I've got to tell you just the same. There's been so much in the way--I'm wild to say it now. I love you." The water breaking on the ancient stones below seemed to be repeating "Sh--sh," but Minot paid no heed to the warning. "I've cared for you," he went on, "ever since that morning on the train when we raced the razor-backs--ever since that wonderful ride over a God-forsaken road that looked like Heaven to me. And every time since that I've seen you I've known that I'd come to care more--" The girl stood and stared thoughtfully out at the soft blue sea. Minot moved closer, over those perilous slippery rocks. "I know it's an old story to you," he went on, "and that I'd be a fool to hope that I could possibly be anything but just another man who adores you. But--because I love you so much--" She turned and looked at him. "And in spite of all this," she said slowly, "from the first you have done everything in your power to prevent the breaking off of my engagement to Harrowby." "Yes, but--" "Weren't you overly chivalrous to a rival? Wouldn't what--what you are saying be more convincing if you had remained neutral?" "I know. I can't explain it to you now. It's all over, anyway. It was horrible while it lasted--but it's over now. I'm never going to work again for your marriage to anybody--except one man. The man who is standing before you--who loves you--loves you--" He stopped, for the girl was smiling. And it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to. "I'm sorry, really," she said. "But I can't help it. All I can see now is your triumphant entrance last night--your masterly exposure of that silly necklace--your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that Harrowby and I might be married on Tuesday. In the light of all that has happened--how can you expect to appear other than--" "Foolish? You're right. And you couldn't possibly care--just a little--" He stopped, embarrassed. Poorly chosen words, those last. He saw the light of recollection in her eye. "I should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope--for me--" "If we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different--and Harrowby had never been--I might--" "You might--yes?" "I might not say what I'm going to say now. Which is--hadn't we better return to the hotel?"