I took the opportunity to thank her for her kindness to me when I came on board on Sunday; but with my opening words the air of Francesca meeting Paolo in space came over her again. I understood her to say that her help on Sunday was a little thing, that she would have given it to any one.
“Of course,” I agreed, “you would have given it to any one; but in this case you gave it to me. You must allow me to thank you before anything happens that might—that might make gratitude too late.”
As I think of her now I can see that she was mistress of herself in the way that a letter-perfect actress is mistress of herself, repeating words that have been learned to fit a certain situation. She had foreseen that I would say something of the kind; she had foreseen that when I did she might be a prey to troublesome emotions; and so had fortified herself in advance by a studied set of phrases.
“I’m so little of a nurse that I should be ashamed not to do for a soldier the few small things in my power.”
If she had never made me suffer anything, and if the moment had not been one that might conceivably end our relations forever, I should probably not have uttered the words that came to me next.
“Was it only because I’m a soldier—?”
She interrupted skilfully. “Only because you’re a soldier? Isn’t a soldier the most splendid man in the world—especially at a time like this?”
Bang!
It was one of our two guns. As a merchantman, not built to withstand the concussion of cannon, the Assiniboia shuddered.
With an involuntary start my companion caught me by the sleeve. The impulse to seize her hand and draw it gently within my arm was irresistible. Had I reflected, I might not have done this, since my dominant desire was to keep stripped and unencumbered for the race.