"Shall we sail to-morrow?" he called after me suddenly, as I ascended the stairs.
Sail with him to the Mediterranean the next day? Pass weeks and weeks absolutely alone with him, in the narrow limits of a vessel, with his horrible secret parting us in sympathy further and further from each other day by day? I shuddered at the thought of it.
"To-morrow is rather a short notice," I said. "Will you give me a little longer time to prepare for the voyage?"
"Oh yes--take any time you like," he answered, not (as I thought) very willingly. "While you are resting--there are still one or two little things to be settled--I think I will go back to the yacht. Is there anything I can do for you, Valeria, before I go?"
"Nothing--thank you, Eustace."
He hastened away to the harbor. Was he afraid of his own thoughts, if he were left by himself in the house. Was the company of the sailing-master and the steward better than no company at all?
It was useless to ask. What did I know about him or his thoughts? I locked myself into my room.