"Not to sail on the Laminian," said the woman at his side. He could detect a subtle perfume about her presence, a flowery and effeminising perfume which made him think of New England village gardens. An older man would have thought of boudoirs.
"Why not?" he asked. The woman could see that he was not as impressed as he might be.
"It will not be safe."
"It never is, on those third-class boats."
He insisted on being literal or nothing.
"But there are dangers ahead of you dangers you don't and can't understand."
"I don't see how I can help that," said the youth of little imagination. "When the Company puts me on a ship or gives me a station anywheres, I've got to stick to it."
"Then you don't believe me?"
"It's not a matter of believing. It's more a matter of not understanding you."
A change seemed to creep over her, a lightening and relaxing change, such as would come to the New England garden he had thought of when it passed from shadow to sunlight.
"Would you like to understand me?" she asked, turning her eyes full on his somewhat abashed young face. He blushed and tingled under the directness of her gaze.
