"She has to be small," replied the first officer. "Length's no use for her work. Look at us! We should crack like a filbert in the ice-pack. She won't."
"But she's out for three years," said Cynthia.
"There'll be a relief ship with fresh stores, no doubt. And there are not many of them on board, twenty-nine all told."
Cynthia looked again, and held the glasses to her eyes until the boats drew level. She could make out small figures upon the bridge and deck; she saw answering signals break out in answer to their own good wishes; and then the name in new gold letters came out upon the black stern beneath the counter.
"Thank you," she said as she handed back the glasses. But her eyes were still fixed upon that full-rigged ship lumbering heavily to the unknown South.
"I am very glad to have seen the Perhaps," she said slowly.
The first officer looked at her curiously. There was a quiver of emotion in her voice.
"Perhaps you have friends on board," he said. "If you have, I envy them."
"No," she said slowly. "I know no one on board. But I am glad to have seen the ship, for I was interested in it in a part of my life which is now over."
The first officer was about to smile. Here was a remarkably pretty girl of seventeen or so, talking about a part of her life which was over! But the big, dark-blue eyes swept round and rested gravely on his face, and he bowed to her with a fitting solemnity.