Sir Langham turned and looked suspiciously at her; but her face was guileless and calm, with no trace of raillery, her eyes still fixed on the long bright track of foam.
"I suppose you, now," he muttered hoarsely, "always sleep well, go off directly you turn in—eh?"
Her quiet eyes met his; little and fierce and truculent, but behind their rather bloodshot boldness there lurked something else, and with a sudden pang of pity she knew that it was fear, and that Sir Langham dreaded the night.
"As a rule I do," she said gently; "but of course I've known what it is to be sleepless, and it's horrid."
"It's hell," said Sir Langham, "and I'm in it every night this voyage, for I've knocked off
morphia and opiates—they were playing the deuce with my constitution, and I've strength of mind for anything when I fairly take hold. But it's awful. When d'you suppose natural sleep will come back?"
She knew that he did not lack physical courage, that he had fearlessly faced great dangers in many outposts of the world; but the demon of insomnia had got a hold of Sir Langham, and he dreaded the night unspeakably. At that moment there was something pathetic about the little, boastful, filibustering man.
"I think you will sleep to-night," she said confidently, "especially if you go to bed early."
She half rose as she spoke, but he put his hand on her arm and pressed her down in her chair again.
"Don't go yet," he cried. "Keep on tellin' me I'll sleep, and then perhaps I shall. You look as if you could will people to do things. You're that quiet sort. Will me, there's a good girl. Tell me again I'll sleep to-night."