He was smiling at her with
open mouth and wet eyes. She came quite close to him: he cringed
unconsciously, and then lifted his face, expecting her to kiss him.
Instead, she said in a low voice, close to his ear:
"You asked me to help you, Louis. Do you know the best way to help you?"
"Kith--baisez-moi--ah, oui, oui."
"The best way to help you is to drown you. You're--you're not fit to
live! Oh, you're a perfect idiot!"
She turned and ran down below. Dimly she heard the schoolmaster say,
"Very foolish to talk to an intoxicated man"; she heard the same boy
who had begged her vine leaves singing his passionate love song to the
tinkling music of his guitar and the lapping water. Then she was below
deck, making blindly for her cabin.
At the door of Number 15 she was arrested by Jimmy. He was standing in
the doorway, his head well back, his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Marcella!" he whispered proudly. "Look!"
She made herself conscious of him and looked. On the outer bunk was a
crumpled mass of clothing that was heaving up and down and snoring
loudly.
"He's there all right. I got him up when he wanted to be on the floor.
He pinched my arm fearful. He's very strong, my Daddy is! He didn't
pinch it on purpose, he couldn't help it."
Pushing back the sleeve of his jersey, he showed her a red mark as a
soldier might show his scars.
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