CHAPTER XIV
Jane gazed through the doorway at the sea. There was apparently no horizon, no telling where the sea ended and the faded blue of the sky began. There was something about this sea she did not like. She was North-born. It seemed to her that there was really less to fear from the Atlantic fury than from these oily, ingratiating, rolling mounds. They were the Uriah Heep of waters. She knew how terrible they could be, far more terrible than the fiercest nor’easter down the Atlantic. Typhoon! How could a yacht live through a hurricane? She turned again toward Cunningham.
“You are like that,” she said, irrelevantly.
“Like what?”
“Like the sea.”
Cunningham rose and peered under the half-drawn blind.
“That may be complimentary, but hanged if I know! Smooth?—is that what you mean?”
“Kind of terrible.”
“That rather cuts. I might be terrible. I don’t know—never met the occasion; but I do know that I’m not treacherous. You certainly are not afraid of me.”