I complied, rather to please her than to humour my own wishes; for though my eyelids had the heaviness of lead, there was a thrilling and hurrying of nervous sensation in me which were as good as a threat that I should not sleep. And so it proved, for after I had held my head pillowed for some half hour, I was still broad awake; and then growing impatient of my posture, I sat erect.
‘No use, Miss Temple, I cannot sleep; and since that is so, pray resume this hard couch and finish out your slumbers.’
But this she would not do, protesting that she was fully rested. I was too desirous of her company to weary her with entreaties, and until the day broke we sat at that narrow table with the light close enough to enable us to see each other clearly. I remember saying to her:
‘Since this is an experience you were fated to pass through—I suppose we must all believe in the pre-ordination of our lives—my sincere regret is that you should not have been imprisoned in this hull with somebody more agreeable to yourself than I.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she exclaimed, giving me a look that carried me back. ‘In this state of misery a compliment would be shocking.’
‘I seek no compliment,’ said I. ‘I am merely expressing a regret.’
‘You regret that you are here?’ she exclaimed. ‘So do I, for then I should not be here. But since it is my lot to be here, I am satisfied with my companion; I would not exchange him for any other person on board the Countess Ida.’
I bowed.
‘Should we be rescued,’ she continued, keeping her dark gaze full upon me as she spoke (and something of their beauty and brilliancy of light had returned to her eyes with her rest), ‘I shall be deeply in your debt. My mother will thank you, Mr. Dugdale.’
‘I have done nothing, Miss Temple. It is you who are now complimentary, and I fear ironical.’