Jane gazed through the doorway at the sea. There was apparently no
horizon, no telling where the sea ended and the faded blue of the sky
began. There was something about this sea she did not like. She was
North-born. It seemed to her that there was really less to fear from the
Atlantic fury than from these oily, ingratiating, rolling mounds. They
were the Uriah Heep of waters. She knew how terrible they could be, far
more terrible than the fiercest nor'easter down the Atlantic. Typhoon! How
could a yacht live through a hurricane? She turned again toward
Cunningham.

"You are like that," she said, irrelevantly.

"Like what?"

"Like the sea."

Cunningham rose and peered under the half-drawn blind.

"That may be complimentary, but hanged if I know! Smooth?--is that what
you mean?"

"Kind of terrible."

He sat down again.

"That rather cuts. I might be terrible. I don't know--never met the
occasion; but I do know that I'm not treacherous. You certainly are not
afraid of me."

"I don't exactly know. It's--it's too peaceful."

"To last? I see. But it isn't as though I were forcing you to go through
with the real voyage. Only a few days more, and you'll have seen the last
of me."

"I hope so."

He chuckled.

"What I meant was," she corrected, "that nothing might happen, nobody get
hurt. Human beings can plan only so far."