"As I cannot get you to talk reasonably," she protested, "I must appeal to your sympathy. I am hungry, and oh, so thirsty."
The girl had hardly eaten a morsel for her midday meal. Then she was despondent, utterly broken-hearted. Now she was filled with new hope. There was a fresh motive in existence. Whether destined to live an hour or half a century, she would never, never leave him, nor, of course, could he ever, ever leave her. Some things were quite impossible—for example, that they should part.
Jenks brought her a biscuit, a tin of meat, and that most doleful cup of champagne.
"It is not exactly frappé," he said, handing her the insipid beverage, "but, under other conditions, it is a wine almost worthy to toast you in."
She fancied she had never before noticed what a charming smile he had.
"'Toast' is a peculiarly suitable word," she cried. "I am simply frizzling. In these warm clothes—"
She stopped. For the first time since that prehistoric period when she was "Miss Deane" and he "Mr. Jenks" she remembered the manner of her garments.
"It is not the warm clothing you feel so much as the want of air," explained the sailor readily. "This tarpaulin has made the place very stuffy, but we must put up with it until sundown. By the way, what is that?"
A light tap on the tarred canvas directly over his head had caught his ear. Iris, glad of the diversion, told him she had heard the noise three or four times, but fancied it was caused by the occasional rustling of the sheet on the uprights.
Jenks had not allowed his attention to wander altogether from external events. Since the Dyaks' last escapade there was no sign of them in the valley or on either beach. Not for trivial cause would they come again within range of the Lee-Metfords.