"Didn't you call me Eve?"
"I—when a man is dreaming—asleep—"
"My name is Evelyn, you know. Nobody ever called me Eve…. Yet—it's odd, isn't it, Mr. McKay? I've always wished that somebody would call me Eve…. But perhaps you were not dreaming of me?"
"I—was."
"Really. How interesting!" He remained silent.
"And did you call me Eve—in that dream?… That is curious, isn't it, after what I've just told you?… So I've had my wish—in a dream." She laughed a little. "In a dream—YOUR dream," she repeated. "We must have been good friends in your dream—that you called me Eve."
But the faint thrill of the dream was in him again, and it troubled him and made him shy, and he found no word to utter—no defence to her low-voiced banter.
Then, not far away on the port quarter, a deck-gun spoke with a sharper explosion, and intense stillness reigned in the saloon.
"If there's any necessity," he whispered, "you recollect your boat, don't you?"
"Yes…. I don't want to go—without you." He said, in a pleasant firm voice which was new to her: "I know what you mean. But you are not to worry. I am absolutely well."