She rose at last, before the meal was ended, and went up to the great empty deck.  She felt as if she would stifle below.  But, up above, the wash of the sea and the immensity of the night soothed her somewhat.  She found a secluded corner, and leaned upon the rail, gazing out over the black waste of water.

What was he doing, she wondered.  How was he spending this second night of misery?  Had he begun to console himself already?  She tried to think so, but failed—­failed utterly.

Irresistibly the memory of the man swept over her, his gentleness, his chivalry, his unfailing kindness.  She was beginning to see the whole bitter tragedy by the light of her repentance.  He had loved her, surely he had loved her in those old days when she had tricked him in sheer, childish gaiety of soul.  And, for her sake, that her suffering might be the briefer, he had masked his love.  She had never thought so before, but she saw it clearly now.

It had all been a miserable misunderstanding from beginning to end, but she was sure, now, that he had loved her faithfully for all those years.  And if it were against all reason to think so, if all her experience told her that men were not moulded thus, had not his chosen friend declared him to be one in ten thousand, and did not her quivering woman’s heart know him to be such?  Ah, what had she done?  What had she done?

“Oh, Pat!” she sobbed.  “Pat!  Pat!  Pat!”

The great idol of her pride had fallen at last, and she wept her heart out up there in the darkness, till physical exhaustion finally overcame her, and she could weep no more.

XI

“Won’t you sit down?” a quiet voice said.

She started out of what was almost a stupor of grief, to find a man’s figure standing close to her.  Her eyes were all blinded by weeping, and she could see him but vaguely in the dimness.  She had not heard him approach.  He seemed to appear from nowhere.  Or had he, perchance, been near her all the time?

Instinctively she drew a little away from him, though in that moment of utter desolation even the sympathy of a stranger sent a faint warmth of comfort to her heart.

“There is a chair here,” the quiet voice went on, and as she turned vaguely, almost as though feeling her way, a steady hand closed upon her elbow and guided her.

Perhaps it was the touch that, like the shock of an electric current, sent the blood suddenly tingling through her veins, or it may have been some influence more subtle.  She was yielding half-mechanically when suddenly, piercing her through and through, there came to her such a flash of revelation as almost deprived her for the moment of her senses.

She stood stock still and faced him.

“Oh, who is it?” she cried piteously.  “Who is it?”

The hand that held her tightened ever so slightly.  He did not instantly reply, but when he did, it was on a note of grimness that she had never heard from him before.