Chapter four

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      When Ivy came out of her state-room at half-past eight, the great heat of the day had gone, and old Dieppe harbour was bathed in a mysterious, enchanting twilight. She had put on to-night a white chiffon frock which made her look childishly young, and, as she floated wraithlike down the deck towards him, Rushworth caught his breath.

      He had been waiting for her—he would have been ashamed to acknowledge to himself for how long, though he knew that she was never late. Jervis had no sense of time, but punctuality was one of Ivy’s virtues.

      “I’m afraid you’ll think my sea-study rather austere!”

      “Austere?”

      His lovely friend hardly knew the meaning of this, to her unusual, word. Eagerly she walked through into what was the floating workshop of a very busy man, though something had been done this evening to disguise its real character. Two great bowls of variously coloured roses stood on the writing-table; and in the centre of the state-room was a small table set for two. On an Italian plate in the centre of the table was heaped up some fine fruit.

      “How delicious!” She clapped her hands. “Who would ever think we were on board a ship?”

      “You are the first guest of mine who has ever come through this door.”

      He longed to tell her, he wanted her to know, that she held a place apart from any other human being in his life.

      “How about Miss Chattle?”

      “Charlotte least of all! Once she was free of this room, I should never be able to get her out.”

      “Not Miss Dale even?”

      The colour rushed into Rushworth’s sunburnt face, and Ivy noted it with a jealous pang, as he answered more gravely, “No, not even Bella. I made up my mind—and I’m a man who once he has made up his mind, well, sticks to it—that this state-room should be my bolt-hole, as well as my study. It’s understood by everyone on board that when I’m in here, I won’t be disturbed.”

      He pointed to a telephone instrument. “If the yacht catches fire, my skipper has permission to ring me up.”

      The short dinner was served well and quickly by Rushworth’s own steward; but neither of the two felt in the mood for talking in the presence of even the most unobtrusive third. Each was longing, consciously longing, to be alone with the other.

      During that half hour when he had been waiting for her, aching for her, Miles Rushworth had faced up to the fact that he was madly in love with Ivy Lexton, and that he would give everything he valued most in the world to have her for his own.

      But his passion for another man’s wife—so again and again he assured himself—was of an exalted, noble, and spiritual quality. Never would he allow that passion to become earthly. He admitted, at long last, that, as regarded his own peace of mind, he had been unwise to see as much of Ivy as he had done in London. But he had dreamt, fool that he had been, of a friendship which should be prolonged even after his marriage to another woman. During those three weeks he had also thought often of the girl whom he meant to make his wife. Ivy should be his friend and Bella’s friend—their dear, dear friend.

      But since they had all come together on his yacht Rushworth had had a rude awakening. He knew now that Bella Dale was his dear, dear friend, but Ivy Lexton was the woman he loved.

      At last dinner, which had seemed to them both intolerably long, was over.

      “Would you like coffee served on deck?” asked Rushworth.

      But before Ivy could answer, the steward intervened. “It’s just begun to rain, sir,” and as he said the word “rain,” there came a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder.

      Ivy’s host turned to her. “We shall have to stay here, unless you’d rather go into the saloon?”

      “I’d rather stay here,” she said in a low voice.

      “Shall I pull down the blind, sir?”

      “You may as well.”

      In a minute the man brought in coffee, and then they heard him running along the deck through the pelting rain.

      Ivy’s hand lay on the table. She looked at it—her fingers were twitching. She felt, with joy and triumph, the tenseness of the atmosphere between them, and, for the first time, something in her responded to Rushworth’s still voiceless passion.

      “I don’t want any coffee,” she murmured.

      “Neither do I.”

      They both rose. He looked across at her. “You’ll find that sofa over there comfortable, I think.”

      He uttered the commonplace words in a strained, preoccupied tone. The summer storm outside seemed at one with him, shutting them off from the world.

      Ivy walked across to the little couch, which was just large enough for two, and, after a perceptible moment of hesitation, he followed her.

      For a moment he stood silently gazing down into her upturned face. Then he began moving forward a chair.

      “Won’t you sit down here, by me?” she asked, looking at him with her dove-like eyes.

      “Shall I? Is there room?”

      “Plenty of room,” she said tremulously.

      As he sat down, there came another vivid flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder louder than the one before.

      He turned quickly to her: “You’re not frightened, are you?”

      “I am—a little.”

      And then all at once she was in his arms, and he was murmuring low, passionate words of endearment and of reassurance between each long, trembling, clinging kiss.

      How he loved her! And how wonderful to know that she, poor darling, loved him too. He felt as may feel a man who, after wandering for days in the desert, suddenly