It was not until they were landlocked once more, and the Folly was reluctantly beating back through the Narrows, that he spoke again.

“So you wish me to go away?”

“I cannot see any use in your staying,” she replied, “after what you have said.  I—­cannot see,” she added in a low voice, “that for you to remain would be to promote the happiness of—­either of us.  You should have gone to-day.”

“You care!” he exclaimed.

“It is because I do not wish to care that I tell you to go—­”

“And you refuse happiness?”

“It could be happiness for neither of us,” said Honora.  “The situation would be impossible.  You are not a man who would be satisfied with moderation.  You would insist upon having all.  And you do not know what you are asking.”

“I know that I want you,” he said, “and that my life is won or lost with or without you.”

You have no right to say such a thing.”

“We have each of us but one life to live.”

“And one life to ruin,” she answered.  “See, you are running on the rocks!”

He swung the boat around.

“Others have rebuilt upon ruins,” he declared.

She smiled at him.

“But you are taking my ruins for granted,” she said.  “You would make them first.”

He relapsed into silence again.  The Folly needed watching.  Once he turned and spoke her name, and she did not rebuke him.

“Women have a clearer vision of the future than men,” she began presently, “and I know you better than you know yourself.  What—­what you desire would not mend your life, but break it utterly.  I am speaking plainly.  As I have told you, you interest me; so far that is the extent of my feelings.  I do not know whether they would go any farther, but on your account as well as my own I will not take the risk.  We have come to an impasse.  I am sorry.  I wish we might have been friends, but what you have said makes it impossible.  There is only one thing to do, and that is for you to go away.”

He eased off his sheet, rounded the fort, and set a course for the moorings.  The sun hung red above the silhouetted roofs of Conanicut, and a quaint tower in the shape of a minaret stood forth to cap the illusions of a day.

The wind was falling, the harbour quieting for the night, and across the waters, to the tones of a trumpet, the red bars of the battleship’s flag fluttered to the deck.  The Folly, making a wide circle, shot into the breeze, and ended by gliding gently up to the buoy.

CHAPTER V

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

It was Saturday morning, but Honora had forgotten the fact.  Not until she was on the bottom step did the odour of cigarettes reach her and turn her faint; and she clutched suddenly at the banisters.  Thus she stood for a while, motionless, and then went quietly into the drawing-room.  The French windows looking out on the porch were, as usual, open.