She shook her head.
“You cannot,” she answered. “The years can carry no more than their ordinary burden of sensations. If you try to fill them too full, you lose everything.”
“I shall try what I can do!” he remarked calmly.
She rose abruptly.
“I am afraid of you tonight,” she said. “I am going downstairs. Will you give my rug and cushion to the deck steward? And—good night.”
She gave him her hand, but she did not look at him, and she hurried away a little abruptly.
Wingrave yawned, and lighting a cigar, strolled up and down the deck. A figure loomed out of the darkness and almost ran into him. It was the young man in the serge suit. He muttered a clumsy apology and hurried on.
A COCKNEY CONSPIRATOR
“The bar closes in ten minutes, sir!” the smoking room steward announced.