There was something deeply significant in her gaze, something that was brave, and appealed, and winced at the same time. She went on slowly with her knitting.
"He is waiting his time," she remarked in a low voice.
"He will wait too long," I said with a little laugh.
"Do you think so?" she asked, and, laying down her work, went to the window as I had done. "It is cold."
"We are off an icy shore," I said.
"Yes, I found it on the map this morning," she nodded. "We are close to the Straits of Magellan!"
At that moment the sound of the piano sailed through the door at the end of the corridor. She turned her head slightly, and then moved away restlessly. She went to the chair on which I had been sitting and picked up my Tennyson.
"I know him pretty well," she remarked, turning the pages. She halted where I had inserted a marker.
"'The Princess,'" she said slowly. She drummed her fingers on the leaf, read for a minute or two, and dropped the book lightly. "We have no literature in comparison with yours, Dr. Phillimore; but we have sometimes done better than that."
"Oh, not than the lyrics," I protested lightly. "Ask me no more——"