“I fear I do not always pay my debts,” she answered.  “But you will find it difficult to convince me on this occasion that the debt exists.”

“Faith, I shall not try!” he returned, with a doggedness that met and overrode her scorn.  “The game isn’t worth the candle.  I know you will think ill of me in either case.”

“Why, Major Hone?”

He met her eyes in the moonlight, and she felt as if by sheer force he held them.

“Because,” he said slowly, “I have made it impossible for you to do otherwise.”

“Surely that is no one’s fault but your own?” she said.

“I blame no one else,” said Hone.

And with that he bent again to his work as though he had been betrayed into plainer speaking than he deemed advisable, and became silent again.

Nina Perceval trailed her hand in the water and watched the ripples.  Those few words of his had influenced her strangely.  She had almost for the moment forgotten her enmity.  But it returned upon her in the silence.  She began to remember those bitter years that stretched behind her, the blind regrets with which he had filled her life—­this man who had tricked her, lied to her—­ay, and almost broken her heart in those far-off days of her girlhood, before she had learned to be cynical.

“And even if I did believe you,” she said, “what difference would it make?”

Hone was silent for a moment.  Then—­“Just all the difference in the world,” he said, his voice very low.

“You value my good opinion so highly?” she laughed.  “And yet you will make no effort to secure it?”

He turned his eyes upon her again.

“I would move heaven and earth to win it,” he said, and she knew by his tone that he was putting strong restraint upon himself, “if there were the smallest chance of my ever doing so.  But I know my limitations; I know it’s all no good.  Once a blackguard, always a blackguard, eh, Mrs. Perceval?  And I’d be a special sort of fool if I tried to persuade you otherwise.”

But still she only laughed, in spite of the agitation but half-subdued in his voice.

“I would offer to steer,” she remarked irrelevantly, “only I don’t feel equal to the responsibility.  And since you always get there sooner or later, my help would be superfluous.”

“You share the popular belief about my luck?” asked Hone.

“To be sure,” she answered gaily.  “Even you could scarcely manage to find fault with it.”

He drew a deep breath.  “Not with you in the boat,” he said.

She withdrew her hand from the water, and flicked it in his face.

“Hadn’t you better slow down?  You are getting overheated.  I feel as if I were sitting in front of a huge furnace.”

“And you object to it?” said Hone.

“Of course I do.  It’s unseasonable.  You Irish are so tropical.”

“It’s only by contrast,” urged Hone.  “You will get acclimatised in time.”