At any rate she thought that it would be prudish to demur, and she took one of the seats in the lee of the screen. Audley tucked the cloak about her, and took the other. The light of a lantern fell on their faces and the few passengers who still tramped the windy deck could see the pair, and doubtless envied him their shelter. “Are you comfortable?” he inquired—but before she could answer he whistled softly.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“Not much.” He laughed to himself.
Then she saw coming along the deck towards them a man who had not found his sea-legs. As he approached he took little runs, and now brought up against the rail, now clutched at a stay. Mary knew the man again. “He nearly missed the boat,” she whispered.
“Did he?” her companion answered in the same tone. “Well, if he had quite missed it, I’d have forgiven him. He is going to be ill, I’ll wager!”
When the man was close to them he reeled, and to save himself he grasped the end of their screen. His eyes met theirs. He was past much show of emotion, but his voice rose as he exclaimed, “Audley. Is that you?”
“It is. We are in for a rough night, I’m afraid.”
“And—pardon me,” the stranger hesitated, peering at them, “is that Miss Audley with you?”
“Yes,” Mary said, much surprised.
“Oh!”