His hair was rumpled, his expression
one of speechless annoyance.
"W--what the d--devil are you up to?" he said, stammering a little.
"Th-that's the s-second time."
"Oh, it's you!" she said, speaking breathlessly. "A horrible man gave me
whisky, and I was frightened."
"Good Lord!" He gazed at her, and she noticed that he gazed in a queer
way, afraid to meet her eyes: it was her chin he saw when he looked at
her; she rubbed it with her handkerchief, wondering if a smut had got on
it. And he transferred his gaze to her ear.
"And I made you spill your tea! I am sorry! I seem made to do violent
things to you. But can't I get you some more?"
"I s-suppose I c-can make some," he said, turning into the cabin.
"Don't they give us tea? Do we have to make our own?"
"Oh no--but I've done this trip before, and know how one w-wants a
d-drink in the tropics."
He took the door in his hand and fumbled with the faulty catch as though
he would shut it. Then he seemed to shake himself together inside his
coat, which was very crumpled, as though he had been lying down inside
it. "Look here," he said breathlessly and with an effort, "w-would you
like some tea? I can get another c-cup from the steward."
"I would," she said frankly. "Do make some more. I've a cake in my box
that's supposed to last me till I get to Australia.
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