“I will say nothing so unkind of you,” he remarked. “You are unlike any other woman whom I ever met.”
They listened together to the bells sounding from the quarter deck. It was eleven o’clock. The deck behind them was deserted, and a fine drizzling rain was beginning to fall. Mrs. Watson removed the rug from her knees regretfully.
“I must go,” she said; “do you hear how late it is?”
“You will tell me all about America,” he said, rising and drawing back her chair, “to-morrow?”
“If we can find nothing more interesting to talk about,” she said, looking up at him with a sparkle in her dark eyes. “Good-night.”
Her hand, very small and white, and very soft, lingered in his. At that moment an unpleasant voice sounded in their ears.
“Do you know the time, Violet? The lights are out all over the ship. I don’t understand what you are doing on deck.”
Mr. Watson was not pleasant to look upon. His eyes were puffy, and swollen, and he was not quite steady upon his feet. His wife looked at him in cold displeasure.
“The lights are out in the smoke-room, I suppose,” she said, “or we should not have the pleasure of seeing you. Good-night, Mr. Sabin! Thank you so much for looking after me!”