But at the word “home” she turned again. Spurling had retired for the night. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. "Do you affect ignorance that I am a condemned felon, and can inherit nothing? But do not imagine that under any circumstances I would accept your terms. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again.
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