"A beneficent shipping company provides one camp stool to each cabin, you'll find—if you're lucky," he said; but there was not one in Marcella's cabin. He sat down on his own, and then, standing up awkwardly as she sat quite casually and comfortably on the floor, offered it to her.
"Oh no—keep it. I always sit on the floor," she explained, and this time he stared at the end of her nose.
He explained the mystery of powdered milk to her; reaching over for the tin to examine it more closely, she tipped it over.
"I keep doing this sort of thing," she explained, "ever since I left Lashnagar. Most things I touch I knock over."
"Weak co-ordination," he said.
"Whatever's that?" She paused in cutting a slice of cake with an enormous clasp-knife Wullie had given her years ago.
He immediately looked consciously learned.
"Like a baby, you know—it grabs for a thing and can't aim at it. It reaches a few inches the other side of it. It means your brain and body are not on speaking terms."
"Oh, my goodness! Am I like that? Does it matter? How do you know all about it?"
"I learnt it at the hospital."