"I was. I didn't sleep a wink. I was
expecting to see you soon--and even then I had my doubts."
"As to my existence?"
"It wasn't exactly that, though of course I couldn't tell that you
weren't a product of Captain Blunt's sleeplessness. He seemed to
dread exceedingly to be left alone and your story might have been a
device to detain us . . ."
"He hasn't enough imagination for that," she said.
"It didn't occur to me. But there was Mills, who apparently
believed in your existence. I could trust Mills. My doubts were
about the propriety. I couldn't see any good reason for being
taken to see you. Strange that it should be my connection with the
sea which brought me here to the Villa."
"Unexpected perhaps."
"No. I mean particularly strange and significant."
"Why?"
"Because my friends are in the habit of telling me (and each other)
that the sea is my only love. They were always chaffing me because
they couldn't see or guess in my life at any woman, open or secret.
. ."
"And is that really so?" she inquired negligently.
"Why, yes. I don't mean to say that I am like an innocent shepherd
in one of those interminable stories of the eighteenth century.
But I don't throw the word love about indiscriminately.
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