I suppose it is natural for a man to enjoy being looked after in this way; it was certainly a new sensation to Farrar and myself. We assured her we were drying out and did not need the coats, but nevertheless she went back into the cabin and found them.
“Miss Thorn says you should both be whipped,” she remarked.
When we had put on our coats Miss Trevor sat down and began to talk.
“I once heard of a man,” she began complacently, “a man that was buried alive, and who contrived to dig himself up and then read his own epitaph. It did not please him, but he was wise and amended his life. I have often thought how much it might help some people if they could read their own epitaphs.”
Farrar was very quick at this sort of thing; and now that the steering had become easier was only too glad to join her in worrying the Celebrity. But he, if he were conscious, gave no sign of it.
“They ought to be buried so that they could not dig themselves up,” he said. “The epitaphs would only strengthen their belief that they had lived in an unappreciative age.”
“One I happen to have in mind, however, lives in an appreciative age. Most appreciative.”
“And women are often epitaph-makers.”
“You are hard on the sex, Mr. Farrar,” she answered, “but perhaps justly so. And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an epitaph to his taste.”
Farrar looked at her curiously.