"Oh, yes," he said at last; "we'll be friends. I'm going back to the old long voyages again as soon as I can—in Santa Cruz, if your father will let me off. In a year or two, or perhaps three, I may go back home, and we may meet on the street, and shake hands, and smile, and you will go away satisfied. 'He's my friend yet,' you may say, and maybe think of me again in a year or two, or perhaps meet me and bow as we pass. Or, more likely, you will go away, and, coming back again after a long time, meet a bent, brown old man and not recognize him. Or you may ask about me, and be told: 'Oh, he died long ago, in the South Pacific or Japan, or some other God-forsaken place.' 'I knew him long ago,' you'll say, and then go on asking about others. I guess that's what friendship like ours comes to mean."
He turned to her as he ceased, and saw her rising to a stooping position under the low sliding-hood. Her face was white.
"I'm going below now," she said.
"It's best," he answered; "I'm afraid to have you here."
She descended two steps and then turned.
"You are cruel," she said. Her voice trembled.
"What did you say?" he asked.
He leaned over toward her, for the gale had drowned her words.
"I said, 'You are cruel.'"
"Oh," he said vaguely, and watched her as she disappeared below.