"You ought to have a chair in a more comfortable place," he suggested; "out where the sun is."
"That's just my difficulty. The sun bothers my eyes, and I'm obliged to find nooks where it cannot reach me. We old folks have to be careful. Won't you sit down?"
He opened a chair and sat on the foot-rest, conscious of a vague exhilaration; it was the human look of her and the human sound of her voice.
"My name is Mathison."
"And mine is Chester—Mrs. Hattie M. Chester. My cabin is opposite yours. If a submarine should pop up, you'll promise to come for me?"
"I promise. But there won't be any subs over here except in dreams."
"Something to scare naughty children with. I see."
The hint of raillery convinced Mathison that there was a vigorous, fearless personality under the shawl and the rug. What a curious spot to select! Swinging gray shadows that passed and repassed, baffling scrutiny in a most amazing manner.
The conversation turned upon the war, and here again she surprised him by her clear understanding of what was happening to the world.