“I am. And everybody's being so nice about giving us checks we can use instead of a lot of silly things we wouldn't know what to do with.” She smiles. “Those are your feet,” she announces gravely.
“Yes. Well?”
“Oh, nothing. Only I'm going to tickle them.”
“You're not? Ouch—Nancy, you little devil!” and Oliver slides hastily to the floor. Then he goes over to the port-hole.
“A very nice day!” he announces in the face of a bull's eye view of dull skies and oily dripping sea.
“Is it? How kind of it! Ollie, I must get up.” “Nancy, you must.” He goes over and kneels awkwardly by the side of her berth—an absurd figure enough no doubt in tortoise-shell spectacles and striped pajamas, but Nancy doesn't think so. As for him he simply knows he never will get used to having her with him this way all the time; he takes his breath delicately whenever he thinks of it, as if, if he weren't very careful always about being quiet she might disappear any instant like a fairy back into a book.
He kisses her.
“Good morning, Nancy.”
Her arms go round him.
“Good morning, dearest.”