paid for the privilege of
immunity; he had but listened to her story, volunteering nothing. John
Woolfolk wished, however, that he had said some final, useful word to
her before going. He was certain that, looking for the ketch and
unexpectedly finding the bay empty, she would suffer a pang, if only
of loneliness. In the short while that he had been there she had come
to depend on him for companionship, for relief from the insuperable
monotony of her surroundings; for, perhaps, still more. He wondered
what that more might contain. He thought of Millie at the present
moment, probably lying awake, steeped in dread. His flight now assumed
the aspect of an act of cowardice, of desertion. He rehearsed wearily
the extenuations of his position, but without any palpable relief.

An even more disturbing possibility lodged in his thoughts--he was not
certain that he did not wish to be actually back with Millie again. He
felt the quick pressure of her fingers on his arm as she jumped from
the tender; her magnetic personality hung about him like an aroma.
Cloaked in mystery, pale and irresistible, she appealed to him from
the edge of the wild oranges.

This, he told himself again, was but the manner in which a ruthless
Nature set her lures; it was the deceptive vestment of romance. He
held the ketch relentlessly on her course, with--now--all his
thoughts, his inclinations, returning to Millie Stope. In a final,
desperate rally of his scattering resolution he told himself that he
was unfaithful to the tragic memory of Ellen. This last stay broke
abruptly, and left him defenseless against the tyranny of his mounting
desires. Strangely he felt the sudden pressure of a stirring wind upon
his face; and, almost with an oath, he put the wheel sharply over and
the _Gar_ swung about.

Poul Halvard had been below, by inference asleep; but when the yacht
changed her course he immediately appeared on deck. He moved aft, but
Woolfolk made no explanation, the sailor put no questions. The wind
freshened, grew sustained. Woolfolk said:

"Make sail."

Soon after, the mainsail rose, a ghostly white expanse on the night.
John Woolfolk trimmed the jigger, shut off the engine; and, moving
through a sudden, vast hush, they retraced their course. The bay was
ablaze with sunlight, the morning well advanced, when the ketch
floated back to her anchorage under the oleanders.

VIII

Whether he returned or fled, Woolfolk thought, he was envelo