“About dying—and other men.”
“Why not?”
“It is too much of a pleasure to me,” she said, roguishly. “It suggests things that will never happen.”
He smiled happily. He, in his turn, could not be deceived. She had grown white; she had been frightened; she had swept with one terrified glance the hungry ocean, and with another loving, faithful one his expectant face. He had seen in her eyes the expression he wished to cultivate, and he laughed aloud in his content.
“Oh, you are so provoking,” she said, biting her lip. “You will not stay where I put you. You are so aggressive. You promised everything last evening; this morning you are detestable. We are just where we were before.”
“Softly, darling, those children are gaping, and we are not standing still. We are progressing.”
“Progressing—progressing; we are going back!” she said, impatiently.
“Give me your hand,” he said, abruptly, “we will have a run to restore your good-humour.”
Swiftly he rushed her down the long decks, till, panting and breathless, they leaned against a door, and she echoed his recent laughter. She could not help it. His drooping head and hand on his heart were so irresistibly comical, and in such amusing contrast to his usually dignified deportment.
“That’s good,” he remarked, approvingly; “it is worth a kingdom to see your face light up in that way. Now will it please your ladyship to continue merry and to have some breakfast?”