"No! Sit still," she answered. "I am frightened of you, but I don't
want you to go away. I want to think . . . . Yes! I can understand you
better now! Your life was spoilt!"
"By no means," he answered. "I am still young! I am going to make up
for those ten years."
She shook her head.
"You cannot," she answered. "The years can carry no more than their
ordinary burden of sensations. If you try to fill them too full, you
lose everything."
"I shall try what I can do!" he remarked calmly.
She rose abruptly.
"I am afraid of you tonight," she said. "I am going downstairs. Will
you give my rug and cushion to the deck steward? And--good night."
She gave him her hand, but she did not look at him, and she hurried
away a little abruptly.
Wingrave yawned, and lighting a cigar, strolled up and down the deck.
A figure loomed out of the darkness and almost ran into him. It was
the young man in the serge suit. He muttered a clumsy apology and
hurried on.
A COCKNEY CONSPIRATOR
"The bar closes in ten minutes, sir!" the smoking room steward
announced.
The young man who had been the subject of Wingrave's remarks hastily
ordered another drink, although he had an only half-emptied tumbler in
front of him. Presently he stumbled out on to the deck. It was a dark
night, and a strong head wind was blowing. He groped his way to the
railing and leaned over, with his head half buried in his hands.
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