“There’s a restaurant car on the train, come and have some breakfast,” said Miss Ogilvy, “for on the boat you may not wish to eat. I shall at any rate.”
This was untrue for she had breakfasted already, but that did not matter.
“My father said I was not to take meals on the trains,” explained Godfrey, awkwardly, “because of the expense.”
“Oh! I’m your father, or rather your mother, now. Besides, I have a table,” she added in a nebulous manner.
So Godfrey followed her to the dining car, where he made an excellent meal.
“You don’t seem to eat much,” he said at length. “You have only had a cup of tea and half a bit of toast.”
“I never can when I am going on the sea,” she explained. “I expect I shall be very ill, and you will have to look after me, and you know the less you eat, well—the less you can be ill.”
“Why did you not tell me that before?” he remarked, contemplating his empty plate with a gloomy eye. “Besides I expect we shall be in different parts of the ship.”
“Oh! I daresay it can be arranged,” she answered.
And as a matter of fact, it was “arranged,” all the way to Lucerne. At Dover station Miss Ogilvy had a hurried interview at the ticket office. Godfrey did not in the least understand what she was doing, but as a result he was her companion throughout the long journey. The crossing was very rough, and it was Godfrey who was ill, excessively ill, not Miss Ogilvy who, with the assistance of her maid and the steward, attended assiduously to him in his agonies.