The words popped out before Anne let herself stop to think; why shouldn't Meggie see him once before he went away, especially if, as he seemed to think, he was going to be away a very long time? His head turned toward her. Those beautiful, distant blue eyes were very intelligent and very hard to fool. Oh, yes, he was a born diplomat! He knew exactly what she was saying, and every reason at the back of her mind. Anne found herself hanging breathlessly on his answer, but for a long time he said nothing, just sat staring out over the emerald cane toward the brimming river, with the baby forgotten in the crook of his arm. Fascinated, she stared at his profile-the curve of eyelid, the straight nose, the secretive mouth, the determined chin. What forces was he marshaling while he contemplated the view? What complicated balances of love, desire, duty, expediency, will power, longing, did he weigh in his mind, and which against which? His hand lifted the cigarette to his lips; Anne saw the fingers tremble and soundlessly let go her breath. He was not indifferent, then. For perhaps ten minutes he said nothing; Anne lit him another Capstan, handed it to him in place of the burned-out stub. It, too, he smoked down steadily, not once lifting his gaze from the far mountains and the monsoon clouds lowering the sky.
"Where is she?" he asked then in a perfectly normal voice, throwing the second stub over the veranda railing after the first. And on what she answered depended his decision; it was her turn to think. Was one right to push other human beings on a course which led one knew not where, or to what? Her loyalty was all to Meggie; she didn't honestly care an iota what happened to this man. In his way he was no better than Luke. Off after some male thing with never the time or the inclination to put a woman ahead of it, running and clutching at some dream which probably only existed in has addled head. No more substance than the smoke from the mill dissipating itself in the heavy, molasses-laden air. But it was what he wanted, and he would spend himself and his life in chasing it. He hadn't lost his good sense, no matter what Meggie meant to him. Not even for her-and Anne was beginning to believe he loved Meggie more than anything except that strange ideal-would he jeopardize the chance of grasping what he wanted in his hands one day. No, not even for her. So if she answered that Meggie was in some crowded resort hotel where he might be recognized, he wouldn't go. No one knew better than he that he wasn't the sort who could become anonymous in a crowd. She licked her lips, found her voice. "Meggie's in a cottage on Matlock Island."
"On where?"
"Matlock Island. It's a resort just off Whitsunday Passage, and it's specially designed for privacy. Besides, at this time of the year there's hardly a soul on it." She couldn't resist adding, "Don't worry, no one will see you!"
"How reassuring." Very gently he eased the sleeping baby out of his arms, handed her to Anne. "Thank you," he said, going to the steps. Then he turned back, in his eyes a rather pathetic appeal. "You're quite wrong," he said. "I just want to see her, no more than that. I shall never involve Meggie in anything which might endanger her immortal soul."
"Or your own, eh? Then you'd better go as Luke O'neill; he's expected. That way you'll be sure to create no scandal, for Meggie or for yourself." "And what if Luke turns up?"
"There's no chance of that. He's gone to Sydney and he won't be back until March. The only way he could have known Meggie was on Matlock is through me, and I didn't tell him, Your Grace."
"Does Meggie expect Luke?"
Anne smiled wryly. "Oh, dear me, no."
"I shan't harm her," he insisted. "I just want to see her for a little while, that's all."
"I'm well aware of it, Your Grace. But the fact remains that you'd harm her a great deal less if you wanted more," said Anne.
When old Rob's car came sputtering along the road Meggie was at her station on the cottage veranda, hand raised in the signal that everything was fine and she needed nothing. He stopped in the usual spot to reverse, but before he did so a man in shorts, shirt and sandals sprang out of the car, suitcase in hand.
"Hooroo, Mr. O'neill!" Rob yelled as he went. But never again would Meggie mistake them, Luke O'neill and Ralph de Bricassart. That wasn't Luke; even at the distance and in the fast-fading light she wasn't deceived. She stood dumbly and waited while he walked down the road toward her, Ralph de Bricassart. He had decided he wanted her after all. There could be no other reason for his joining her in a place like this, calling himself Luke O'neill. Nothing in her seemed to be functioning, not legs or mind or heart. This was Ralph come to claim her, why couldn't she feel? Why wasn't she running down the road to his arms, so utterly glad to see him nothing else mattered? This was Ralph, and he was all she had ever wanted out of living; hadn't she just spent more than a week trying to get that fact out of her mind? God damn him, God damn him! Why the hell did he have to come when she was finally beginning to get him out of her thoughts, if not out of her heart? Oh, it was all going to start again! Stunned, sweating, angry, she stood woodenly waiting, watching that graceful form grow larger. "Hello, Ralph," she said through clenched teeth, not looking at him. "Hello, Meggie."
