The same fool of a steward brought his coffee. And as Karen offered no encouragement to conversation he breakfasted beside her in silence.
Afterward he lighted a cigarette, and they both lay back on their steamer chairs watching the fog and the drizzle and the promenading passengers who all appeared to be excited at the approaching process of docking and over the terrible episode of the previous night.
In all languages it was being discussed; Guild could catch fragments of conversation as groups formed, passed, and repassed their chairs.
Another thing was plain to him; Karen had absolutely nothing to say to him, and apparently no further interest in him.
From time to time he looked at the pure profile which never turned in response. Self-possessed, serene, the girl gazed out into the fog as though she were quite alone on deck. Nor did there seem to be any effort in her detached interest from her environment. And Guild wondered in his depressed heart whether he had utterly and hopelessly killed in her the last faint glimmer of friendly interest in him.
The docking of the Feyenoord in the fog interested him very little; here and there a swaying mast or a black and red funnel loomed up in the fog, and the air was full of characteristic noises—that is all he saw or heard where he lay silent, brooding on fate and chance and on the ways of a woman in the pride of her youth.
The idiot steward reappeared and Guild sent him below for their luggage.
On the gang-plank they descended with the throng, shoulder to shoulder in silence. Inspection did not take long; then a porter who had been following took their luggage.
"Karen, do you speak Dutch?" asked Guild, mischievously.
"Yes—a little."