Then I cursed myself for a sentimental impressionist and I went below. Stateroom forty-seven was mine. We three had been separated in the shuffle, and I knew not who was to be my room-mate. Feeling very downhearted, I stretched myself on the upper berth, and yielded to a mood of penitential sadness. I heard the last gang-plank thrown off, the great crowd cheer, the measured throb of the engines, yet still I sounded the depths of reverie. There was a bustle outside and growing darkness. Then, as I lay, there came voices to my door, guttural tones blended with liquid ones; lastly a timid knock. Quickly I answered it.
"Is this room number forty-seven?" a soft voice asked.
Even ere she spoke I divined it was the Jewish girl of the grey eyes, and now I saw her hair was like a fair cloud, and her face fragile as a flower.
"Yes," I answered her.
She led forward the old man.
"This is my grandfather. The Steward told us this was his room."
"Oh, all right; he'd better take the lower berth."
"Thank you, indeed; he's an old man and not very strong."
Her voice was clear and sweet, and there was an infinite tenderness in the tone.
"You must come in," I said. "I'll leave you with him for a while so that you can make him comfortable."