Her excitement began to flag a little. She was getting tired. The bottle had been strained by the ferment of the wine. She turned to Malcolm.
“Had we not better be putting about?” she said. “I should like to go on for ever—but we must come another day, better provided. We shall hardly be in time for lunch.”
It was nearly four o’clock, but she rarely looked at her watch, and indeed wound it up only now and then.
“Will you go below and have some lunch, my lady?” said Malcolm.
“There can’t be anything on board!” she answered.
“Come and see, my lady,” rejoined Malcolm, and led the way to the companion.
When she saw the little cabin, she gave a cry of delight.
“Why, it is just like our own cabin in the Psyche,” she said, “only smaller! Is it not, Malcolm?”
“It is smaller, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “but then there is a little state-room beyond.”
On the table was a nice meal—cold, but not the less agreeable in the summer weather. Everything looked charming. There were flowers; the linen was snowy; and the bread was the very sort Florimel liked best.