She considered him compassionately. His hair fell in disorder over his haggard face; his cheeks were faintly green.
"Can't I do something for you?" she asked, stepping forward.
Stainton failed in a smile, but feebly motioned her away.
"I am afraid not," said he—"unless you stop the ship. All I need is a little rest. You had better go back on deck. Really."
Muriel delayed.
"A man spoke to me on deck," she breathlessly confessed. "An Austrian diplomat, I think he is. My rug blew, and he rearranged it. Do you mind?"
"Mind?" asked Stainton. "Certainly not.—How this boat pitches!—Talk to him, by all means. These things are common on shipboard, I believe."
Muriel was reassured. She returned to the deck, but von Klausen was not there, and she did not see him again until evening.
Then, though she still dutifully wished that Jim were with her, she found her appetite better than ever. She ventured upon a lonely cocktail. She ate some Blue Points. Captain von Klausen sent to her table, with his card, a pint of champagne, and she ordered potage Mogador, duckling balls with turnips, cèpes Provençals, sacher tart, and ice cream.
When she reached the promenade-deck, von Klausen was already there. He had dined in evening clothes, but these were now hidden by the light rain-coat that swathed his lithe young figure from neck to heels. Muriel observed that its shoulders fitted to the shoulders of the wearer and had none of the deceptiveness of the padded shoulders to which she was once familiar in American coats.