He measured it
(for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack weariness which
came over him all at once.
He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual
place saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony's
face. She whispered quietly:
"Is anything going to happen? What is it?"
"It's all over now," he whispered back.
He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white
ghostly oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had
remained quietly there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And
it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there was imminent danger and
probably had some notion of its nature.
"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he murmured admiringly.
"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked.
He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not
he. His flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he
must see what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have
scorched her face, and expressed his concern.
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