“You might almost have given me longer notice,” urged Jenny.  “It seems to me.”

“No.  I’m under instructions.  I’m not a free man,” said Keith soberly.  “I was once; but I’m not now.  I’m captain of a yacht.  I do what I’m told.”

Jenny fingered her port-wine glass, and in looking at the light upon the wine her eyes became fixed.

“Will you ever do anything else?” she asked.  Keith shrugged slightly.

“You want to know a lot,” he said.

“I don’t know very much, do I?” Jenny answered, in a little dead voice.  “Just somewhere about nothing at all.  I have to pretend the rest.”

“D’you want to know it?”

Jenny gave a quick look at his hands which lay upon the table.  She could not raise her eyes further.  She was afraid to do so.  Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat.

“It’s funny me having to ask for it, isn’t it!” she said, suddenly haggard.

CHAPTER VII:  MORTALS

i

Keith did not answer.  That was the one certainty she had; and her heart sank.  He did not answer.  That meant that really she was nothing to him, that he neither wanted nor trusted her.  And yet she had thought a moment before—­only a moment before—­that he was as moved as herself.  They had seemed to be upon the brink of confidences; and now he had drawn back.  Each instant deepened her sense of failure.  When Jenny stealthily looked sideways, Keith sat staring before him, his expression unchanged.  She had failed.

“You don’t trust me,” she said, with her voice trembling.  There was another silence.  Then: 

“Don’t I?” Keith asked, indifferently.  He reached his hand out and patted hers, even holding it lightly for an instant.  “I think I do.  You don’t think so?”

“No.”  She merely framed the word, sighing.

“You’re wrong, Jenny.”  Keith’s voice changed.  He deliberately looked round the table at the little dishes that still lay there untouched.  “Have some of these sweets, will you....  No?” Jenny could only draw her breath sharply, shaking her head.  “Almonds, then?” She moved impatiently, her face distorted with wretched exasperation.  As if he could see that, and as if fear of the outcome hampered his resolution, Keith hurried on.  “Well, look here:  we’ll clear the table together, if you like.  Take the things through the other cabin—­that one—­to the galley; root up the table by its old legs—­I’ll show you how its’ done;—­and then we can have a talk.  I’ll ...  I’ll tell you as much as I can about everything you want to know.  That do?”

“I can’t stay long.  I’ve left Pa in bed.”  She could not keep the note of roughness from her pleading voice, although shame at being petulant was struggling with her deeper feeling.

“Well, he won’t want to get up again yet, will he?” Keith answered composedly.  Oh, he had nerves of steel! thought Jenny.  “I mean, this is his bedtime, I suppose?” There was no answer.  Jenny looked at the tablecloth, numbed by her sensations.  “Do you have to look after him all the time?  That’s a bit rough...”