of wind; but always the
inevitable kiss had been delayed, had been averted; and only her eager
afterthoughts had made romance of their meagre acquaintance. Yet now,
when they were alone, together, when every nerve in her body seemed
tense with desire for him, he was somehow aloof--not constrained (for
then she would have been happy, at the profoundly affecting knowledge
that she had carried the day), but unsympathetically and unlovingly at
ease. She could not read his face: in his manner she read only a barren
kindness that took all and gave nothing. If he didn't love her she need
not have come. It would have been better to go on as she had been doing,
dreaming of him until--until what? Jenny sighed at the grey vision. Only
hunger had driven her to his side on this evening--the imperative hunger
of her nature upon which Keith had counted. He had been sure she would
come--that was unforgivable. He had welcomed her as he might have
welcomed a man; but as he might also have welcomed any man or woman who
would have relieved his loneliness upon the yacht. Not a loved friend.
Jenny, with her brain restored by the gentle breeze to its normal
quickness of action, seemed dartingly to seek in every direction for
reassurance! and she found in everything no single tone or touch to feed
her insatiable greed for tokens of his love. Oh, but she was miserable
indeed--disappointed in her dearest and most secret aspirations. He was
perhaps afraid that she wanted to attach herself to him? If that were
so, why couldn't he be honest, and tell her so? That was all she wanted
from him. She wanted only the truth. She felt she could bear anything
but this kindness, this charming detached thought for her. He was giving
her courtesy when all she needed was that his passion should approach
her own. And when she should have been strong, mistress of herself, she
was weak as water. Her strength was turned, her self-confidence mocked
by his bearing. She trembled with the recurring vehemence of her love,
that had been fed upon solitude, upon the dreariness in which she spent
her mere calendared days. Her eyes were sombrely glowing, dark with
pain; and Keith was leaning towards her as he might have leant towards
any girl who was half fainting. She could have cried, but that she was
too proud to cry. She was not Emmy, who cried. She was Jenny Blanchard,
who had come upon this fool's trip because a force stronger than her
pride had bidden her to forsake al