“We won’t wash up,” I said.  “I’ll just shove everything through into the fo’c’s’le, and we’ll leave them there for Mr. Gow.  A certain amount of exercise will be good for him after his holiday.”

“Do,” said Joyce sleepily.  “And then come and sit over here, Neil.  I want to stroke your hair.”

I cleared away the things, and shutting up the table, which worked on a hinge, spread out my own cushions on the floor alongside of Joyce’s bunk.  The latter was just low enough to let me rest my head comfortably on her shoulder.

How long we lay like that I really don’t know.  My whole body and mind were steeped in a strange, delightful sense of peace and contentment, and I began to realize, I think for the first time, how utterly necessary and dear to me Joyce had become.  I slid my arm underneath her—­she lay close up against me, her hair, which she had loosened from its fastenings, half covering us both in its soft beauty.

The lamp flickered and died down, but we didn’t trouble to relight it.  Outside the night grew darker and darker, and through the open hatch we could just see a solitary star shining down on us from between two banks of cloud.  Cool and sweet, a faint breeze drifted in from the silent marshes.

Then, quite suddenly, it seemed to me, a strange madness and music filled the night for both of us.  I only knew that Joyce was in my arms and that we were kissing each other with fierce, unheeding passion.  There were tears on her cheeks—­little sweet, salt tears of love and happiness that felt all wet against my lips.

It was only a moment—­just one brief moment of unutterable beauty—­and then I remembered.  With a groan I half raised myself in the darkness.

“I must go, Joyce,” I whispered.  “I can’t stay here.  I daren’t.”

She slipped her soft bare arms round my neck, and drew my face down to hers.

“Don’t go,” she whispered back.  “Not if you don’t want to.  What does it matter?  I am all yours, Neil, anyway.”

For a moment I felt her warm fragrant breath upon my face, and her heart beating quickly against mine.  Then, with an effort—­a big effort—­I tore myself away.

“Joyce dear,” I said, “it would only make things worse.  Oh, my dear sweet Joyce, I want you like the night wants the dawn, but we can’t cheat life.  Suppose we fail—­suppose there’s only death or prison in front of me.  It will be hard enough now, but if—­”

I broke off, and with a little sob Joyce sat up and felt for my hand.

“You’re right, darling,” she said; “but oh, my dear, my dear!” She lifted up my hand and passed it softly backwards and forwards across her eyes.  Then, with a little laugh that had tears close behind it, she added:  “Do you know, my Neil, I’m conceited enough to think you’re rather wonderful.”

I bent down and kissed her with infinite tenderness.

“I am, Joyce,” I said.  “Exactly how wonderful you’ll never know.”