"The sea plays strange pranks, doesn't it, my friend?" Paul asked after a pause. The question drew Emily's gaze back from the satiny blue deep. His manner of address chilled her. "'My friend! My friend'?" her brain echoed. He averted his gaze sadly.
"Yes," she assented. "It does play strange pranks."
In the words a meaning was veiled that did not reach him. She was thinking of the barrier that had been building itself between them all day. No sooner did one wall go down than another rose in its place. Strangely, as she watched him staring over the deep to the southward, a feeling of contrition filled her. With the truest sympathy she said:
"I am sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you what this man said. It has stirred unpleasant memories—sad ones."
"No. The finest memory I have is my father—the finest memory any son ever had."
As he spoke he seemed to go still further away from her. In silence she watched him enter the lounge and return to the deck with his sextant. He took an observation of Polaris and then went in to the chart table to work it out. With a feeling akin to shame Emily sensed that he did not wish her near him and she started below.
"We should try to get as much sleep as possible while this calm lasts."
He said this coldly and without looking up from the book from which he was taking a set of logarithms.
"I know—I understand," she answered, fighting for control of herself.
"A breeze may come at any time and we'll need every bit of strength we can muster to work the ship."