“That cuss!” said Jude.
“Which?”
“The one I saw.” She wriggled close to him till their sides touched. “S’posin’?”
“Yes?”
“S’posin’ he was to take it into his head to do a walk along here?”
“Don’t you bother about him,” said Ratcliffe. “I’d kick him into the sea—besides, he was only an optical illusion. It was my stupid talk did it.”
“I’m not bothering,” said Jude, “only it’s a durned long time till morning. N’matter,” she rested her hand on his shoulder in all the familiarity of companionship; then she shifted her hand from his left to his right shoulder so that her arm was across his back, and then she fell silent and he felt something poking into his left shoulder—it was her nose! She had evidently under his protection forgotten “hants” and “wuzzards,” forgotten him, even, for she was humming a sort of tune under her breath.
He knew exactly her mental condition,—mind wandering,—and it was a strange feeling to be cuddled like that by a person who had half-forgotten his existence, except as a protection against fears, especially when he remembered her recent antagonism that had developed so mysteriously and as mysteriously vanished. He slipped his left arm round her to make her more comfortable. Then her nose gave place to her cheek against his shoulder and she yawned. He could feel her ribs under her guernsey and the beat of her heart just beneath the gentle swell of her breast. He remembered her coat, which was in the dinghy. She had thrown it in as an after-thought in case of a change of weather, but had never worn it.
“Hadn’t you better put on your coat?” asked he.
“Lord! I don’t want no coat.”