But still Murchison was entirely Murchison. He could have leaped overboard and saved her from the sea more easily than he could address one single word to her. He was eager to speak to her, to reassure her, but it was not possible.
Her anxious glance, turning in his direction, fell full upon his face.
“Do you think anything’s going to happen?” she asked, as promptly and simply as if he were an old friend.
“No, no!” said he. “But with these crowded ferries they’re very cautious.”
He came over to the rail and stood near her. He had an absurd desire to remove his hat and to stand bareheaded before her innocent youth; but he resisted this preposterous impulse, and spoke in his driest way. He gave her facts about the shipping in this stupendous harbor, quoting figures, reports. He had an uneasy feeling that he was tiresome, and probably making mistakes in his statistics, but he was so desperately occupied in not looking at her that it distracted his mind.
“I find it an agreeable trip,” he ended abruptly.
He was obliged to look at her then, to see if his talk had wearied her, and he observed[Pg 77] a strange expression upon her downcast face.
“I’m so afraid of the sea!” she said faintly.
“But this is only a bay—” he began.
She glanced up.