“I know. That’s what I should have done to be proper. But I can’t help it, Mr. Pitt. I’m not afraid; I don’t want to shrink and flee; and I do look forward to something different with unholy joy. Awful, isn’t it? But it’s all so thrilling—the wicked crew, the mutiny, and—and Captain Brack.”
XVI
Chanler came up briskly before we had time to speak further. His dullness had given place to animation. It was apparent that he had wasted no time while in his stateroom.
“Let’s go aft, Betty,” he said. “There’s an awning up there, and deck-chairs, and no wind. Come on.”
I watched them as they went, he, nervous, with unsteady eyes, she, calm, buoyant, strong. He leaned toward her and talked excitedly, and I saw that she drew a little away from him.
They did not sit down. I saw Chanler urging her, and she shook her head and continued to walk to and fro, Chanler following. He was talking and gesticulating excitedly. She looked at him long and steadily once, then looked away.
As I turned I found myself face to face with Captain Brack. He had come down noiselessly from the bridge and was studying me with that old superior smile on his lips.
“Ah, you idealist, Mr. Pitt!” he said softly.
“Idealist, Captain Brack? Why do you say that?”
“It is in your eyes. It is in the position of your chin; it is all over you. You are uplifted and exalted for the moment. You feel that you really are something; you feel strong, is that not so?”