her, across the floor of the main cabin, I saw the steward in pursuit
of Captain West's Bible and a sheaf of Miss West's music. And as she
gurgled and laughed at me, beholding her in this intimacy of storm,
the thought flashed through my brain:

SHE IS A WOMAN. SHE IS DESIRABLE.

Now did she sense this fleeting, unuttered flash of mine? I know
not, save that her laughter left her, and long conventional training
asserted itself as she said:

"I just knew everything was adrift in father's room. He hasn't been
in it all night. I could hear things rolling around . . . What is
wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Stubbed my fingers, that's all," I answered, looking at my broken
nails and standing gingerly upright.

"My, that WAS a roll," she sympathized.

"Yes; I'd started to go upstairs," I said, "and not to turn into your
father's bed. I'm afraid I've ruined the door."

Came another series of great rolls. I sat down on the bed and held
on. Miss West, secure in the doorway, began gurgling again, while
beyond, across the cabin carpet, the steward shot past, embracing a
small writing-desk that had evidently carried away from its
fastenings when he seized hold of it for support. More seas smashed
and crashed against the for'ard wall of the cabin; and the steward,
failing of lodgment, shot back across the carpet, still holding the