She murmured with a shrug: "I suppose it's your idea of my idea."

"Ah, and what is yours, if I've misinterpreted it?"

"That the fault is all ours, and that we ought to expiate."

"Expiate!" He smiled. "You talk like an old-fashioned Russian novel… ." He paused a moment, and then added: "I had no idea you were such an idealist… . Well, it's getting late," he continued, standing up with a shake of his long body. "I've got to throw some last things into my trunk, and we'll postpone this discussion till we're on board."

Halo felt a sudden blur before her eyes. "Lewis!" she exclaimed.

He turned back, irritated, impatient to make an end, and as the two stood looking at each other Halo saw, in a revealing flash, how immeasurably far apart they were—had always been, perhaps. It was as if she had been walking in her sleep, and had now abruptly opened her eyes on the edge of a sheer drop. Yet what was there in this paltry wrangle to throw such a glare into the depths?

Tarrant stood waiting. He looked drawn, tired, exasperated. It was no time for reasonable explanations; he hated tactlessness, and she was being tactless. Yet speak she must—speak (she said to herself) before they were so far apart that he was out of hearing… .

"Well?" he repeated.

"Lewis … you're not going to understand… ."

"Understand what?"

"Why I say what I'm going to say—"

"Lord! How portentous! What are you going to say?"

"That our talk has made me feel I want to be by myself for a while—away from you, I mean… ."

"Oh, is that all? All right. I'm off to bed this minute," he said, strangling a yawn.

"I don't mean that. I mean … I'd rather not sail with you tomorrow."

"Not sail?" He swung round and mustered her incredulously. "What in God's name are you driving at now?"

"Just what I say. I'd rather not go… ."

He leaned in the doorway, waiting. She said nothing more, and he broke into the thin laugh which often preceded his outbursts of anger. "May I ask what all the fuss is about anyhow?"

She gave back his look almost timidly. She had not known she meant to say just those words till they were uttered; but now she knew it was her inmost self which had said them, and she could not take back what was spoken. Yet how was she to explain? "Because I … because I feel I want to be alone for a while… ."

"That's why you're not going?"

"I don't feel as if—I could… ."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Yes. I'm serious."

There was another silence. She saw that he was baffled and mortified, and yet too proud to argue with her or entreat her.

"Oh, all right—if you say so," he muttered. Then, after a pause: "All the same, though, I'm curious to know why."