A slow gleam of humour lighted up Trist's soft and melancholy eyes as he looked down at her.
'He cannot answer for himself,' he said suggestively. 'But I think I can volunteer the information that he is not hurt now. He died the death of a plucky fish, and did not flinch.'
'I meant you.'
'I? Oh no, I am not hurt, thank you. Only very dirty, very sanguinary, and quite happy.'
At this moment the steward, a dapper and noiseless man with no appearance of a sailor, came up and took the fish from Trist's hands. Mrs. Wylie returned to her book, and the two young people stood silently in front of her. Presently they moved away as if with one accord, farther aft, beside the wheel. Here Brenda seated herself sideways with one arm round the white awning-stanchion.
She looked up, and, as he happened to be gazing gently down at her, their eyes met. There was no instant withdrawal, no change of expression. These two were evidently very old friends, because a young man and a maiden rarely look into each other's eyes for any appreciable space of time without some slight change of expression supervening.
Theo Trist smiled at length, and looked away for a moment. Then he glanced down at her face again.
'Well?' he said interrogatively. 'You are going to make one of those deep remarks which would take away the breath of some people.'
She smiled, but did not turn away in maidenly reserve. Indeed, she continued to watch his face, wonderingly and absently.
'What a peculiar man you are, Theo!'