His salvation—­if there was to be any—­lay in her ignorance of life.  But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled.  And when she learned that she had been doubly cheated, what then?  His thoughts began to fall on her side of the scales, and his own misery grew lighter as he anticipated hers.  He was an imaginative young man.

Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it.

“I’ll have my cot in here,” said Spurlock to Ruth, “where this table is.  You never can tell.  I’m likely to get up any time in the night to work.”

Together they were making habitable the second bungalow, which was within calling distance of McClintock’s.  They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon.

“Whatever you like, Hoddy,” she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead.  She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone.  “This will be very comfortable.”

“Isn’t that lagoon gorgeous?  I wonder if there’ll be sharks?”

“Not in the lagoon.  Mr. McClintock says they can’t get in there, or at least they never try it.”

“Lord!—­think of having sharks for neighbours?  Every morning I’ll take a dip into the lagoon.  That’ll tune me up.”

“But don’t ever swim off the main beach without someone with you.”

“I wonder where the deuce I’ll be able to get some writing paper?  I’m crazy to get to work again.”

“Probably Mr. McClintock will have some.”

“I sha’n’t want these curtains.  You take them.  The veranda bamboo will be enough for me.”

He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her eyes.  And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—­the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks.  He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts.

“I believe I’ll tear them up.  So long as they’re about, I’ll always be rewriting them and wasting my time.”

“Let me have them.”

“What for?  What do you want of them?”

“Why, they are ... yours.  And I don’t want anything of yours destroyed, Hoddy.  Those were dreams.”

“All right, then.”  He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm.  “But don’t ever let me see them again.  By George, I forgot!  McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it.  I’ll dig it up.  I’ll be feeling fine in no time.  The office is a sight—­not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere.  I’ll have to put some pep into the game—­American pep.  It will take a month to clean up.  I’ve been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!”

She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—­in the veranda chair.  All this—­the island and its affairs—­was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband’s eyes, as in the future she would see all things.