"I'm wondering what he will say if we don't turn up before morning,"
said Sir Tancred gloomily.
"I suppose he'll say that it was an unfortunate accident."
"Yes; but then, I ought to have protected you against unfortunate
accidents. I'm afraid there'll be a lot of gossip."
"Well, it wasn't your fault," said Dorothy carelessly.
Sir Tancred grew more and more unhappy. His watch told him that it was
nearly ten o'clock, and there was no sign of the _Petrel_. Moreover,
the sense of their aloofness from the world had taken a firmer hold on
him, and it drew him and Dorothy nearer and nearer together. The
feeling that the world, of which her money had grown the symbol, would
again come between them, grew more and more intolerable.
At last it grew too strong for him, and he stopped before her and said,
in a voice he could not keep firm, "About that wasted life of mine,
Dorothy. Do you think you could do anything with it?"
Dorothy gasped. "I might--I might try," she said in a whisper.
He stooped down, picked her up, and kissed her. Then, with a profound
sigh of relief and content, he sat down beside her, drew her to him,
and leaned back against the tree; she was crying softly.
They were far away from the world, and for them time stood still.
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