Amaris became aware of an inward excitement, of a movement of tenderness
not to be ignored or denied. Startled by her own prescience, and the
agitation accompanying it, she looked up
quickly to find Carteret watching her; whereupon, mutely, instinctively,
her eyes besought him to ask no questions, make no comment.
For an appreciable space he kept her in suspense, his glance holding and
challenging hers in close observation. Then
as though, not
without
a measure of struggle, granting her request, he smiled at her, and,
turning
his attention to the contents of his
plate, quietly went on with the business of luncheon. Damaris
meanwhile, conscience-stricken--she couldn't
tell why--by this silent interchange of intelligence, this silent demand
on his forbearance, on his connivance in her secrecy, laid the letter
face downwards on the white table-cloth, unopened. Later, Sir Charles
Verity being busy with his English correspondence and Carteret having
disappeared--gone
for a solitary walk, as she divined, being, as she feared, not quite
pleased with her--she read it in the security of her bedroom, seated,
for greater ease,
upon the polished parquet floor just inside an open, southward-facing
French window, where the breeze coming up off the sea gently fanned her
face. The letter began
without preamble: "We made this port--Genoa--last
night. All day we have been discharging cargo. Half
my crew has gone ashore, set on liquoring and wenching after the manner
of unregenerate sailor-men all the world over.
The other half follows their bad example to-morrow, as we shall be lying
idle in honour of the Christmas festival. On board discipline is as
strict as I know
how to make it, but ashore my hand is lifted off them. So long as they
turn up on time they are
free to follow their fancy, even though it lead them to
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