Standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said
"I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, Jon. But you've been very sweet
to me."
Jon squeezed her arm.
"Oh I yes, I've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately."
And now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of glamour
over the past weeks--a kind of painful pleasure, such as he had tried
to screw into those lines about the voice in the night crying; a feeling
such as he had known as a small boy listening avidly to Chopin, yet
wanting to cry. And he wondered why it was that he couldn't say to her
quite simply what she had said to him:
"You were very sweet to me." Odd--one never could be nice and natural
like that! He substituted the words: "I expect we shall be sick."
They were, and reached London somewhat attenuated, having been away six
weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the subject which had
hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds.