"I am thinking of a woman's presence in the mystery. The French say there is always a woman."
He spoke with an attempt at lightness which he was far from feeling. A wince of unpleasantness indicated his true thoughts.
"Do you agree with the French adage?" Emily asked. An enigmatical smile played across her face as she put the question.
"There is always one woman—one woman out of all the world," he answered. His tone thrilled her. He studied her for a second mysteriously. "You are very wonderful to me," he added, but his voice was so low that it seemed that the thought back of it forced itself to unconscious utterance. She met his gaze frankly; the unconcealed light of love was in her eyes.
Paul turned away from her abruptly and a chill came into her heart. She saw the old expression of pain in his face—the expression she had beheld there the day she had seen him first in the steamship agency in Yokohama. It always came so unexpectedly.
Looking out of the galley door to windward, Paul saw a clear sky. The breeze from the southwest held steady at about six or seven knots. All overhead signs promised fine weather, but the swell was ominous. Still all the indications were that it was the aftermath of a storm which had passed far to the westward.
"You're the chief mate of the Daphne now," he said, facing her again, "and it's your watch below. You slept but little last night, you know."
"Last night," she said, repeating the words with a shiver. "Nor did you sleep."
"I will sleep when you have had yours."
"But I want to be with you—to help—all I can."