All through that time below she had been wanting Raft and his big hand to pull her through. Satisfied, knowing he was on board and all right, but wanting him all the same.
On the old barque once or twice had come the stray thought of how Raft’s figure would accommodate itself against the background of the world she knew.
Well, here was the world she knew, or part of it; a deck, clean as a ball-room floor and as spacious, passengers in deck chairs, reading novels, and a manicured French surgeon ready to talk art or philosophy to her, polished, but rather narrow of shoulder.
And against all that stood Raft, rough and in the clothes he had worn on the beach, for there was not a man on board whose clothes would have fitted him comfortably.
Well, he was not incongruous with this background, simply because he destroyed it. In a ball-room it would have been the same. He carried with him his background of high black cliffs and miles of beach and flying gulls and breaking sea, and in a flash came to her the fact that he dwarfed and belittled the other people around just as nature dwarfs and belittles art.
She held both his hands for a moment, managing to pat them, somehow, as she held them, asking him what on earth he was doing with the swab he had just dropped. She had an idea that the ship people had put him to work, but before the idea had risen to indignation heat he reassured her.
“I must be doing,” said Raft. “Not that there’s much to be at in this old kettle. You’ve got your legs back, well, that’s good. I had it out with that doctor chap and he told me how you were going from day to day, but I’ve been wanting the sight of you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder as he might on a pal’s, then he crossed his arms. “And well you look,” said he.
“Doctor Petit,” said the girl, speaking in French, “this is Raft, the bravest and best man in the world as you will know when I tell you all. Shake hands with him.”
The doctor shook hands.