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For as long as five minutes he remained motionless, the fine, rugged face of his son on one side and the amazing beauty of Cunningham's on the other. But in the morning light, in repose, Cunningham's face was tinged with age and sadness. There was, however, no grain of pity in Cleigh's heart. Cunningham had made his bed of horsehair; let him twist and writhe upon it.
"Yes." "Did they steal anything?" Cunningham could positively see Cleigh's jowls redden as he shook his head to the query. "Sorry. You can't expect us to waste coal hunting for a scoundrel who only borrowed your yacht." But what was the row between Cleigh and his son? That was a puzzler. Not a word! They ignored each other absolutely. These dinners were queer games, to be sure.
Not to know if he would ever see them again! There was only one comparison she could bring to bear as an illustration: Cleigh was like a man whose mistress had forsaken him without explanations. She was at once happy and sad: happy that her faith in Cunningham had not been built upon sand, sad that she could not rouse Cleigh's conscience.
"You will find a dozen new novels on the shelves, Miss Norman," said Cleigh as he rose. "I'll be on deck. I generally walk two or three miles in the morning. Let us hang together this day to test the scalawag's promise." "Mr. Cleigh, when you spoke of reparation last night, you weren't thinking in monetary terms, were you?" Cleigh's brows lowered a trifle, but it was the effect of puzzlement.
Cunningham might be telling the truth as to his intentions; but he was promising something that was not conceivably possible, any more than it was possible to play at piracy and not get hurt. At Cleigh's side stood the son, his head swathed in bandages. All day long he had been subjected to splitting headaches, and his face looked tired and drawn.
And how much more you'll love me when I become the dear departed!" Cleigh, understanding that the situation was a creation of pure malice on Cunningham's part Cleigh wheeled and resumed his tramp round the deck. Cunningham plowed his fingers through his hair, gripped and pulled it in a kind of ecstasy. Cleigh's phiz. The memory of it would keep him in good humour all day.
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