The dinner hour was near; I had time only to scribble a note, ‘I regret what we arranged. Tell no one the secret,’ and even as I wrote I heard my husband and Gilling come down the companion, and had time to say no more. I had hoped that he might come into the cabin so that I could have had a private word with him, but he did not and when I came into the saloon, I saw that he had taken his place at the table; he did not meet my eye. I said to Gilling, ‘May I have one second to speak to my husband in private?’ He shrugged and, starting to whistle, moved away and leaned against the door of Richardson’s cabin. I wondered if Mary were still in there; and he must have wondered too, or known that she was, for behind his back his fingers beat a soft little tattoo against the wood. I sat down in my corner place opposite my husband and said, very low: ‘I want to tell you that I’m sorry.’ I think that a load fell away from him; he had been uncertain what he should do if I persisted in my rebellion.
