"What in hell—" began the man, staring after her.
But she was already down the companion-way and rushing towards her cabin. All the misery of her father's death and illness had swept back upon her. It was quite true, as Aunt Janet had said, that nothing would kill that pain until she had schooled herself not to feel. She felt the literal, physical weight of all that misery as she ran along the alley-way, her eyes swimming, her face flushed.
Her cabin—Number 9—being the one with the porthole, was at the end of the alley-way. The door of Number 8 was open into the passage, but she was too blinded by her emotion to notice it, and blundered into it. It was badly swung, and slammed inwards. She heard a smash inside the cabin, and someone said "Damn!" It was exactly the same "Damn" that had resulted from her headlong flight after Dr. Angus.
She was standing a little breathless by her own door when Number 8 opened and Louis Farne looked out. His hair was rumpled, his expression one of speechless annoyance.
"W—what the d—devil are you up to?" he said, stammering a little. "Th-that's the s-second time."
"Oh, it's you!" she said, speaking breathlessly. "A horrible man gave me whisky, and I was frightened."
"Good Lord!" He gazed at her, and she noticed that he gazed in a queer way, afraid to meet her eyes: it was her chin he saw when he looked at her; she rubbed it with her handkerchief, wondering if a smut had got on it. And he transferred his gaze to her ear.
"And I made you spill your tea! I am sorry! I seem made to do violent things to you. But can't I get you some more?"
"I s-suppose I c-can make some," he said, turning into the cabin.
"Don't they give us tea? Do we have to make our own?"