The girl had flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Her brown velvet hat had fallen to the floor, her thick brown hair clustered in glossy disorder over neck and cheek. One slim hand clutched convulsively a tiny handkerchief crushed into a ball.
"We have every chance now," he said very gently, bending over the pillow—"barring a wireless to some British guard-ship. Don't give way yet, Karen." He laid a cool, firm hand over hers and tried to speak jestingly. "Wait until there's no danger at all before you go all to pieces," he whispered.
As he bent above her, he became conscious of the warm fragrance of tears. But no sound came, not a quiver. And after a while he went over to the sofa and sat down, staring at the locked satchel on the floor, vaguely aware that the boat was in steady motion.
"Karen," he said after a moment.
"Yes—dear."
"You know," he said, forcing a laugh, "you needn't say it when we're alone—except for practice."
"Yes, dear, I know."
"May I ask you something?"
"Yes, please."
"Did you know that official named Mitchell?"