“Oh, but,” she remonstrated, “I don’t think you should have done that! I don’t know that I can——”
“Afford it?” he said coolly. “Then—as it is a matter of some shillings—your kinsman will presume to pay for it.”
It was a small thing, and she let it pass. “But who told you,” she asked, “that I was crossing to-night?”
“The Princess. You don’t feel, I suppose, that as you are crossing, it was my duty to stay in France?”
“Oh no!” she protested.
“But you are not sure whether you are more pleased or more vexed? Well, let me show you where your cabin is—it is the size of a milliner’s box, but by morning you will be glad of it, and that may turn the scale. Moreover,” as he led the way across the deck, “the steward’s boy, when he is not serving gin below, will serve tea above, and at sea tea is not to be scorned. That’s your number—7. And there is the boy. Boy!” he called in a voice that ensured obedience, “Tea and bread and butter for this lady in number 7 in an hour. See it is there, my lad!”
She smiled. “I think the tea and bread and butter may turn the scale,” she said.
“Right,” he replied. “Then, as it is only eight o’clock, why should we not sit in the shelter of this tarpaulin? I see that there are two seats. They might have been put for us.”
“Is it possible that they were?” she asked shrewdly. “Well, why not?”
She had no reason to give—and the temptation was great. Five minutes before she had been the most lonely creature in the world. The parting from Joséphine, the discomfort of the boat, the dark sea and the darker horizon, the captain’s rough words, had brought the tears to her eyes. And then, in a moment, to be thought of, provided for, kindly entreated, to be lapped in attentions as in a cloak—in very fact, in another second a warm cloak was about her—who could expect her to refuse this? Moreover, he was her kinsman; probably she owed it to him that she was here.