Guinevere groped about for the chair. “Mother can mend it,” she went on, voicing her anxiety, “if it isn’t too bad.”
“And if it is?” asked the voice.
“I’ll have to wear it, anyhow. It’s brand splinter new, the first one I ever had made by a sure-enough dressmaker.”
“My abominable legs!” muttered the voice.
Guinevere laughed, and all at once became curious concerning the person who belonged to the legs.
He had dropped back into his former position, with feet outstretched, hands in [p165] pockets, and cap pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem inclined to continue the conversation.
She drew in deep breaths of the cool air, and watched the big side-wheel churn the black water into foam, and throw off sprays of white into the darkness. She liked to be out there in the sheltered corner, watching the rain dash past, and to hear the wind whistling up the river. She was glad to be in the dark, too, away from all those gentlemen, so ready with their compliments. But the sudden change from the heated saloon to the cold deck chilled her, and she sneezed.
Her companion stirred. “If you are going to stay out here, you ought to put something around you,” he said irritably.
“I’m not very cold. Besides, I don’t want to go in. I don’t want them to make me sing any more. Mother’ll be awfully provoked if I take cold, though. Do you think it’s too damp?”
“There’s my overcoat,” said the [p166] man, indifferently; “you can put that around you if you want to.”