“Why, yes,” she said, joyously; “do you have that feeling, too?”
“I wonder what it is makes us feel so,” he ventured.
“Perhaps,” she returned, “the long voyage.”
“I shall hate to have the world come back, I believe,” he said, reverting to the original figure. “Shall you?”
“You know I don't know much about it,” she answered, in lithe evasion, for which she more than atoned with a conscious look and one of her dark blushes. Yet he chose, with a curious cruelty, to try how far she was his.
“How odd it would be,” he said, “if we never should have a chance to talk up this voyage of ours when it is over!”
She started, in a way that made his heart smite him. “Why, you said you—” And then she caught herself, and struggled pitifully for the self-possession she had lost. She turned her head away; his pulse bounded.
“Did you think I wouldn't? I am living for that.” He took the hand that lay in her lap; she seemed to try to free it, but she had not the strength or will; she could only keep her face turned from him.