He had come up to
leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a stranger, and an
untried officer, at six in the evening to take his watch. To see her was
quite as unexpected as seeing a vision. When she turned away her head he
recollected himself and dropped his eyes. What he could see then was
only, close to the long chair on which she reclined, a pair of long, thin
legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close to the skylight seat.
Whence he concluded that the 'old gentleman,' who wore a grey cap like
the captain's, was sitting by her--his daughter. In his first
astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he
felt very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn't
very well turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty.
So, still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he
got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him
by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the
thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin
compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse grey locks
escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly on the collar of
the coat.
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