"No, no, thank you. They're just nicely balanced."
"Look here, what have I done?"
"You've barred my way." She tried to pass.
"It isn't like you to take a mortal offense and not say how or what about."
"I haven't—taken offense." She leaned against the wall, hugging the books.
"Then why do you stay in your cabin the whole blessed time?"
"I haven't been in my cabin. I've been in—I've been looking after a lady who wasn't well when she came on board and who is a very bad sailor. So as I'm rather a good one—she will wonder what has become—" and before Napier could gather his wits, Nan was flying down the corridor.
The next day same program was continued, except that Napier hung much about corridor and companionway, waiting in vain for even a glimpse of the flying figure. While walking the deck he had located Number Twenty-four, noting with surprise that a passenger who was ill, especially a woman looked after by Nan, should keep her port closed in fine weather. He had of course looked up the number on the table diagram. Twenty-four was occupied by Mlle. La Farge, the devil take her!
A restless, wearisome day. He knew it an ill preparation for sleep. He turned up the light over his berth, the fierce, unshaded light, and read till his eyeballs burned. He extinguished the horrible glare and lay in the dark, turning and tossing, seeing in the renewal of his Nan-fever a punishment for defective loyalty to his friends. Twelve o'clock came. Is she asleep? As for him, he was wider awake than ever.
One o'clock in the morning. It wasn't to be borne. The real trouble was that instead of taking a proper amount of exercise, he'd hung about waiting. What was the night, the morning, rather—what was it like? He couldn't bring himself to turn on the fierce flood of light. He felt his way to the port. Yes, a gibbous moon, rolling lopsidedly among the cloud-rack over a corrugated-iron sea. Was it hot or cold away from the stifling steam heat? He opened his port and breathed deep. He was not the only sleepless passenger. Two heads showed dimly, two figures in long ulsters leaning against the rail.