Her tone was slightly apologetic, and he laughed nervously. "Oh, that's all right," he said, assuringly, then stammered, "I mean—" He hesitated, and she laughed.
"I mean that we can get along," he continued, stubbornly. "Heaven knows I am sorry. But you can't realize what it means to have some one near you who can see."
She did not answer for a minute, then said quietly: "Shall we breakfast before beginning anything else?"
He reached in his pocket for his penknife. It was gone. The blank expression of disgust on his face made her ask: "What is it?"
"My knife," he said. "It is gone."
They sat opposite each other, the clams between them. Each followed a different trend of ideas. He was raging at this last mishap, and considering means of opening the clams. She was conjecturing over the fate of the City of Panama and wondering what she could do, alone here with this blind man. Her night-gown and a heavy skirt had been all she had worn when she had rushed on deck in the night. She looked around her at the rocks and thought how foolish she had been to leave her shoes.
At last he rose and began to grope back along the beach.
Noticing that his hands were torn and bleeding, she said, hastily: "Don't do that. What are you looking for, anyway?"
"Stones," he answered, stopping.
"I will direct you," she to him. "Left—right—a little ahead now." Guided by her, he moved until his hand touched a small stone. He found two of them and came back to her side.