She must have sensed my frame of mind, for, after a moment, she paused from her sewing and looked at me.
Your first sea funeral, Mr. Pathurst?
“Death at sea does not seem to affect you,” I said bluntly.
“Not any more than on the land.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So many people die, you know. And when they are strangers to you . . . well, what do you do on the land when you learn that some workers have been killed in a factory you pass every day coming to town? It is the same on the sea.”
“It’s too bad we are a hand short,” I said deliberately.
It did not miss her. Just as deliberately she replied:
“Yes, isn’t it? And so early in the voyage, too.” She looked at me, and when I could not forbear a smile of appreciation she smiled back.
“Oh, I know very well, Mr. Pathurst, that you think me a heartless wretch. But it isn’t that it’s . . . it’s the sea, I suppose. And yet, I didn’t know this man. I don’t remember ever having seen him. At this stage of the voyage I doubt if I could pick out half-a-dozen of the sailors as men I had ever laid eyes on. So why vex myself with even thinking of this stupid stranger who was killed by another stupid stranger? As well might one die of grief with reading the murder columns of the daily papers.”
“And yet, it seems somehow different,” I contended.
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” she assured me cheerfully, and returned to her sewing.