"Mr. Wyndham, have you come to stay with me? Why aren't you at dinner? How white you look."
"I am not hungry, Cecily. I thought you would be alone, and I came out to see you. I wanted you to give me a kiss."
"Of course I will—of course I will," said the affectionate child, throwing her arms around his neck.
"You remind me of one of the little sisters I have lost," he said hurriedly. "Thank you, Cecily, thank you. Be a good child, always. I would say 'God bless you' if I dared."
"Why don't you dare? You are a good man, a very good man, the best I know."
"Hush, Cecily, you don't know what you are talking about. Give me another kiss. Thank you sweet little girl."
He went back again to his own cabin. The longing for compassion at this crucial moment had made him run a risk in talking so to Cecily. He blamed himself, but scarcely regretted the act.
It was certainly going to be a dirty night, and already the sailors were busy overhead. The good ship creaked and strained as she to fought her way through the waters. The ladies loudly expressed their uneasiness, and the gentleman-passengers fought down some qualms which they considered unmanly.
Wyndham rose from his seat in the dark, pressed his lips to the letter he had written to his wife, suddenly he started, reeled a step and fell back.
There is no accounting for what happened—but happen it did.