“Is it possible!” cried Dunham; he was now fairly at sea for the first time himself, though by virtue of his European associations he seemed to have made many voyages. It appeared to him that if there was nothing else he could do for Lydia, it was his duty to talk to her. He found another stool, and drew it up within easier conversational distance. “Then you've never been out of sight of land before?”
“No,” said Lydia.
“That's very curious—I beg your pardon; I mean you must find it a great novelty.”
“Yes, it's very strange,” said the girl, seriously. “It looks like the Flood. It seems as if all the rest of the world was drowned.”
Dunham glanced round the vast horizon. “It is like the Flood. And it has that quality, which I've often noticed in sublime things, of seeming to be for this occasion only.”
“Yes?” said Lydia.
“Why, don't you know? It seems as if it must be like a fine sunset, and would pass in a few minutes. Perhaps we feel that we can't endure sublimity long, and want it to pass.”
“I could look at it forever,” replied Lydia.
Dunham turned to see if this were young-ladyish rapture, but perceived that she was affecting nothing. He liked seriousness, for he was, with a great deal of affectation for social purposes, a very sincere person. His heart warmed more and more to the lonely girl; to be talking to her seemed, after all, to be doing very little for her, and he longed to be of service. “Have you explored our little wooden world, yet?” he asked, after a pause.
Lydia paused too. “The ship?” she asked presently. “No; I've only been in the cabin, and here; and this morning,” she added, conscientiously, “Thomas showed me the cook's galley,—the kitchen.”