He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effect
of the festive dinner. For a time Renouard, silent, as if he had
not heard a word of all that babble, did not stir. But when he got
up it was to advance towards the Editor and give him such a hearty
slap on the back that the plump little man reeled in his tracks and
looked quite frightened for a moment.

"You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . .
He's right. It's the only way. You can't resist the claim of
sentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . "
Renouard's voice sank. "A lonely spot," he added, and fell into
thought under all these eyes converging on him in the sudden
silence. His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession,
remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering
cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side.

"I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come. But, of
course, you will. We shall sail to-morrow evening then. And now
let me leave you to your happiness."

He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who was
swaying about with a sleepy frown. . . . "Look at him. He's
overcome with happiness. You had better put him to bed . . . " and
disappeared while every head on the terrace was turned to Willie
with varied expressions.

Renouard ran through the house. Avoiding the carriage road he fled
down the steep short cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting.
At his loud shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up. He leaped in.
"Shove off. Give way!" and the gig darted through the water.