“Come right in,” she gurgled.
A score of retorts, all deliciously inadvisable, tickled my tongue, so I said nothing, contenting myself with holding on with my left hand while I nursed my stinging right hand under my arm-pit. Beyond her, across the floor of the main cabin, I saw the steward in pursuit of Captain West’s Bible and a sheaf of Miss West’s music. And as she gurgled and laughed at me, beholding her in this intimacy of storm, the thought flashed through my brain:
She is a woman. She is desirable.
Now did she sense this fleeting, unuttered flash of mine? I know not, save that her laughter left her, and long conventional training asserted itself as she said:
“I just knew everything was adrift in father’s room. He hasn’t been in it all night. I could hear things rolling around . . . What is wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Stubbed my fingers, that’s all,” I answered, looking at my broken nails and standing gingerly upright.
“My, that was a roll,” she sympathized.
“Yes; I’d started to go upstairs,” I said, “and not to turn into your father’s bed. I’m afraid I’ve ruined the door.”
Came another series of great rolls. I sat down on the bed and held on. Miss West, secure in the doorway, began gurgling again, while beyond, across the cabin carpet, the steward shot past, embracing a small writing-desk that had evidently carried away from its fastenings when he seized hold of it for support. More seas smashed and crashed against the for’ard wall of the cabin; and the steward, failing of lodgment, shot back across the carpet, still holding the desk from harm.
Taking advantage of favouring spells, I managed to effect my exit and gain the newel-post ere the next series of rolls came. And as I clung on and waited, I could not forget what I had just seen. Vividly under my eyelids burned the picture of Miss West’s sleep-laden eyes, her hair, and all the softness of her. A woman and desirable kept drumming in my brain.