As they went on board the yacht a telegram was handed to Rushworth. Carelessly he tore it open, read it through, and then handed it to his guest:
Tremendous affair taking place here tomorrow midday. French President unveiling monument to fallen. We propose staying the night in excellent hotel. Shall be back by teatime.
Ivy looked up. There was joy in Rushworth’s face—and more than joy, for the eager, half-shamed look Ivy had so often seen on a man’s face was there also. But all he said was:
“This means that we shall have a quiet little dinner alone together, you and I.”
“That will be very nice,” she answered quietly.
“I’ve a good deal more work to get through so shall we say half-past eight? We might have dinner in what I call my sea-study. I always dine there, when I’m alone on the yacht.”
Just as she was leaving him, she turned and said gently:
“Don’t you think you ought to have a little rest after all the work you did this morning? Why not wait till tomorrow?”
There was such a sweet solicitude in the tone in which she uttered those words that Rushworth felt touched.
“Work’s the only thing that makes time go by quickly,” he answered, and then, in a low, ardent tone, he added, “When I’m not with you, I’d far rather be working than idling—”
A sensation of intense, secret triumph swept over Ivy Lexton. She felt that the gateless barrier Miles Rushworth had thrown up between them was giving way at last. Tonight would surely come her opportunity of lifting their ambiguous relationship from the dull plane of friendship to the exciting plane of what she called love.
She turned away, and then, a moment later, she stayed her steps, and looked back to where he was still standing. …
Small wonder that during the three hours that followed that informal parting, Rushworth, while mechanically dictating business letters, was gazing inwardly at a lovely vision—an exquisite flower-like face and beseeching, beckoning eyes.
IV
When Ivy came out of her stateroom at half-past eight, the great heat of the day had gone, and old Dieppe harbour was bathed in a mysterious, enchanting twilight. She had put on tonight a white chiffon frock which made her look childishly young, and, as she floated wraithlike down the deck towards him, Rushworth caught his breath.
He had been waiting for her—he would have been ashamed to acknowledge to himself for how long, though he knew that she was never late. Jervis had no sense of time, but punctuality was one of Ivy’s virtues.
“I’m afraid you’ll think my sea-study rather austere!”
“Austere?”
His lovely friend hardly knew the meaning of this, to her unusual, word. Eagerly she walked through into what was the floating workshop of a very busy man, though something had been done this evening to disguise its real character. Two great bowls of variously coloured roses stood on the writing-table; and in the centre of the stateroom was a small table set for two. On an Italian plate in the centre of the table was heaped up some fine fruit.
“How delicious!” She clapped her hands. “Who would ever think we were on board a ship?”
“You are the first guest of mine who has ever come through this door.”
He longed to tell her, he wanted her to know, that she held a place apart from any other human being in his life.
“How about Miss Chattle?”
“Charlotte least of all! Once she was free of this room, I should never be able to get her out.”
“Not Miss Dale even?”
The colour rushed into Rushworth’s sunburnt face, and Ivy noted it with a jealous pang, as he answered more gravely, “No, not even Bella. I made up my mind—and I’m a man who once he has made up his mind, well, sticks to it—that this stateroom should be my bolt-hole, as well as my study. It’s understood by everyone on board that when I’m in here, I won’t be disturbed.”
He pointed to a telephone instrument. “If the yacht catches fire, my skipper has permission to ring me up.”
The short dinner was served well and quickly by Rushworth’s own steward; but neither of the two felt in the mood for talking in the presence of even the most unobtrusive third. Each was longing, consciously longing, to be alone with the other.
During that half hour when he had been waiting for her, aching for her, Miles Rushworth had faced up to the fact that he was madly in love with Ivy Lexton, and that he would give everything he valued most in the world to have her for his own.
But his passion for another man’s wife—so again and again he assured himself—was of an exalted, noble, and spiritual quality. Never would he allow that passion to become earthly. He admitted, at long last, that, as regarded his own peace of mind, he had been unwise to see as much of Ivy as he had done in London. But he had dreamt, fool that he had been, of a friendship which should be prolonged even after his marriage to another woman. During those three weeks he had also thought often of the girl whom he meant to make his wife. Ivy should be his friend and Bella’s friend—their dear, dear friend.
But since they had all come together on his yacht Rushworth had had a rude awakening. He knew now that Bella Dale was his dear, dear friend, but Ivy Lexton was the woman he loved.
At last dinner, which had seemed to them both intolerably long, was over.
“Would you like coffee served on deck?” asked Rushworth.
But before Ivy could answer, the steward intervened. “It’s just begun to rain, sir,” and as he said the word “rain,” there came a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder.
Ivy’s host turned to her. “We shall have to stay here, unless
