“Then what are we to do?” she asked.
There was distress in the cry, but Vane answered it in his most matter-of-fact tone: “So far as I can see, you can only reconcile yourself to staying on board. We’ll have a fresh fair wind for Victoria once we’re round the next head, and with luck we ought to get there late to-night.”
“You’re sure you’ll be there, then?”
“I’m sorry I can’t even promise that: it depends upon the weather,” he replied. “But you mustn’t stand up in the spray. You’re getting wet through.”
She still clung to the coaming, but he fancied that her misgivings were vanishing; and he spoke again: “How are Mrs. Marvin and the little girl? I see you have lighted the stove.”
The girl sat down, shivering, in the partial shelter of the coaming, and at last a gleam of amusement which he thought was partly compassionate shone in her eyes.
“I’m afraid they’re—far from well. That was why I lighted the fire; I wanted to make them some tea. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
Vane smiled. “Everything’s at your service. Go and get your breakfast, and put on a coat you’ll find below if you come out again.”
She disappeared, and Vane felt relieved. Though the explanation had proved less difficult than he had anticipated, he was glad that it was over. Half an hour later she appeared again, carrying a loaded tray, and he wondered at the ease of her movements, for the sloop was plunging viciously.
“I’ve brought you some breakfast. You have been up all night,” she said.