Rosaline was standing with her arms folded beside the bunk. The parrot stretched out his neck and rubbed it against her cheek, closing and unclosing his gem-like eyes. The girl formed her lips into a kiss, and murmured in a drowsy voice:
“Tu m'aimes, Coco, n'est-ce pas, Coco? Bon Coco.”
“Could I have something more, I'm awfully hungry,” said Andrews.
“Oh, I was forgetting,” cried Rosaline, running off with the empty bowl.
In a moment she came back without the parrot, with the bowl in her hand full of a brown stew of potatoes and meat.
Andrews ate it mechanically, and handed back the bowl.
“Thank you,” he said, “I am going to sleep.”
He settled himself into the bunk. Rosaline drew the covers up about him and tucked them in round his shoulders. Her hand seemed to linger a moment as it brushed past his cheek. But Andrews had already sunk into a torpor again, feeling nothing but the warmth of the food within him and a great stiffness in his legs and arms.
When he woke up the light was grey instead of yellow, and a swishing sound puzzled him. He lay listening to it for a long time, wondering what it was. At last the thought came with a sudden warm spurt of joy that the barge must be moving.
He lay very quietly on his back, looking up at the faint silvery light on the ceiling of the bunk, thinking of nothing, with only a vague dread in the back of his head that someone would come to speak to him, to question him.