"It is the fate of genius to be cast aside," said I. "No doubt even I
shall be forgotten--even after my book on the culicidæ shall have
been completed."
"--So that," she went on, not noticing me, "there is that one point in
your favor."
"Then there is a chance?"
"Oh, yes, for me to study you as you once did me--as one of the
culicidæ, I presume. But if you would listen to reason, and end this
foolishness, and set us all ashore, why, I would be almost willing to
forgive you, and we might be friends again,--only friends, Harry, as
we once were. Why not, Harry?"
"You wheedle well," said I, "but you forget that what you ask is
impossible. I am Black Bart the Avenger, and the hand of every man is
against me. I am too deep in this adventure to end it here. Why? I did
not even dare go down-town for fear I might be arrested. Nothing
remains but further flight, and when you ask me to fly and leave you
here, you ask what is impossible."
She stood for a time silent, a trifle paler, her flowers fallen from
her hand, clearly unhappy, but clearly not yet beaten. "Come," said
she coldly, "we must not be brutal to Aunt Lucinda also. Let us go
back."
"Yes," said I, "now you have back your parole."
"I think I should like an artichoke for luncheon," said she.
"Vinaigrette, you know." And she passed aft, her head hidden by her
white parasol, but I knew with chin as high as though she were Marie
Antoinette herself. Nor did I feel much happier than had I been her
executioner.