Annette had
called it a mortal sin.

What was to be done? The other woman must suffer.

The man was hers--hers for ever. He had said it: for ever. Yet her heart
had a wild hunger for that something which this girl had and she had
not. But the man was hers; she had won him away from this other.

Delia came upon the quay bravely, passing through the crowd of staring
fishermen, who presently gave Gaston a guttural cheer. Three of them,
indeed, had been drinking his health. They embraced him and kissed him,
begging him to come with them for absinthe. He arranged the matter with
a couple of francs.

Then he wondered what now was to be done. He could not insult the
Gasgoynes by asking them to come to the chateau. He proposed the Hotel
de France to Mr. Gasgoyne, who assented. It was difficult to separate
here on the quay: they must all walk together to the hotel. Gaston
turned to speak to Andree, but she was gone. She had saved the
situation.

The three spoke little, and then but formally, as they walked to the
hotel. Mr. Gasgoyne said that they would leave by train for Paris the
next day, going to Douarnenez that evening. They had saved nothing from
the yacht.

Delia did not speak. She was pale, composed now. In the hotel Mr.
Gasgoyne arranged for rooms, while Gaston got some sailors together,
and, in Mr. Gasgoyne's name, offered a price for the recovery of the
yacht or of certain things in her. Then he went into the hotel to see if
he could do anything further. The door of the sitting-room was open, and
no answer coming to his knock, he entered.

Delia was standing in the window. Against her will her father had gone
to find a doctor. Gaston would have drawn back if she had not turned
round wearily to him.

Perhaps it were well to get it over now. He came forward. She made no
motion.

"I hope you feel better?" he said. "It was a bad accident."

"I am tired and shaken, of course," she responded. "It was very brave of
you."

He hesitated, then said:

"We were more fortunate than brave."

He was determined to have Andree included. She deserved that; the wrong
to Delia was not hers.

But she answered after the manner of a woman: "The girl--ah, yes, please
thank her for us. What is her name?"

"She is known in Audierne as Madame Belward." The girl started. Her
face had a cold, scornful pride. "The Bretons, then, have a taste for
fiction?"

"No, they speak as they are taught."

"They understand, then, as li