Disquieted, he found distasteful the thought of returning to the lower deck, and so strolled idly aft with a half-formed notion of looking up Iff.
From a deck-chair a woman’s voice hailed him: “Oh, Mr. Staff....”
“Miss Searle?” He turned in to her side, experiencing an odd sensation of pleasure in the encounter; which, wisely or not, he didn’t attempt to analyse—at least further than the thought that he had seen little of the young woman during the last two days and that she was rather likeable.
“You’re not dancing?” he asked in surprise; for she, too, had dressed for this celebration of the last night of the voyage.
Smiling, she shook her head slightly. “Neither are you, apparently. Won’t you sit down?”
He wasn’t at all reluctant to take the chair by her side. “Why not?” he asked.
“Oh, I did dance once or twice and then I began to feel a bit tired and bored and stole away to think.”
“Long, long thoughts?” he asked lightly.
“Rather,” said she with becoming gravity. “You see, it seems pretty serious to one, this coming home to face new and unknown conditions after three years’ absence.... And then, after six days at sea, out of touch with the world, practically, there’s always the feeling of suspense about what will happen when you get solid earth under your feet. You know what I mean.”
“I do. You live in New York?”