"Are you ill, then?" she asked gently. "You don't look ill."

"No, I'm not ill. By the way, do you smoke? It didn't occur to me to
offer you a cigarette."

She shook her head, watching him with a puzzled frown. She wondered why
his hands gave her such a vague sense of discomfort as she watched him
light another cigarette. It was not until she was in her bunk that night
that she remembered that his nails were bitten and ragged--one finger
was bleeding and inflamed.

"No, I'm not ill. I'm sick, though. The Pater says I want stiffening.
This is my third trip in the stiffening process. Like a bally collar in
a laundry! Oh, damn life! What's he know about it, anyway? Have you got
a deck-chair?"

"Yes, but--"

"I'm going to put mine on the fo'c'sle presently. If we don't peg out
claims they'll all go, and the fo'c'sle is the best place in the
steerage. Where's yours? I'll t-take it there, if you like."

He had begun to stammer in the last sentence, suddenly self-conscious
again. She told him where her chair was on deck, and next minute,
without another word, he was half-way along the alley-way, leaving the
tea-things where they were. Then he turned back and spoke from several
yards away.

"I suppose you're wondering what the devil I'm doing in the steerage,
aren't you? A chap like me--a medical student! And I'll t-tell you w-why