It
ended with a piteous appeal to his compassion and besought him to
write to her from the nearest port.
Frank sighed as he read it. Everything in the world seemed wrong
and at cross-purposes. Those who had one thing invariably longed
for something else, and there was no content or happiness or
satisfaction anywhere. The better off were the acquiescent, who
took the good and the bad with the same composure and found their
only pleasure in their work. Best off of all were the dead whose
sufferings were over. But after all it was sweet to be loved, even
if one did not love back, and Frank was very tender with the
little letter and put it carefully in his pocket-book. Yes, it was
sweet to be loved. He said this over and over to himself, and
wondered whether Florence felt the same to him as he did to
Cassie. It seemed to explain so much. It seemed the key to her
strange regard for him. He asked himself whether it could be true
that she had wilfully ordered the ship to sea in order to prevent
him going to the dance. The thought stirred him inexpressibly.
What other explanation was there if this was not the one? And she
had deserted the count, who was away in London on a day's
business; deserted the Paquita at anchor in the roads! He was
frightened at his own exultation. Suppose he were wrong in this
surmise! Suppose it were just another of her unaccountable
caprices!
They ran down Channel at full speed and at night were abreast of
the Scilly lights, driving towards the Bay of Biscay in the teeth
of an Equinoctial gale.
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