"I am sure of that. You are certain you are comfortable there?"

"Perfectly."

"Then--good-night. And thank you."

Unexpectedly she put out her hand, and I took it. It was the first
time I had touched her, and it went to my head. I bent over her
slim cold fingers and kissed them. She drew her breath in sharply
in surprise, but as I dropped her hand our eyes met.

"You should not have done that," she said coolly. "I am sorry."

She left me utterly wretched. What a boor she must have thought me,
to misconstrue her simple act of kindness! I loathed myself with a
hatred that sent me groveling to my blanket in the pantry, and that
kept me, once there, awake through all the early part of the summer
night.

I wakened with a sense of oppression, of smothering heat. I had
struggled slowly back to consciousness, to realize that the door of
the pantry was closed, and that I was stewing in the moist heat of
the August night. I got up, clad in my shirt and trousers, and felt
my way to the door.

The storeroom and pantry of the after house had been built in during
the rehabilitation of the boat, and consisted of a short passageway,
with drawers for linens on either side, and beyond, lighted by a
porthole, the small supply room in which I had been sleeping.