There seemed to be no need of speech, either, only the sense of heavenly contact as though the girl were melting into him, dissolving in his arms.

“Kay!”

Her voice sounded as from an infinite distance.  There came a smothered thudding like the soft sound of guns at sea; and then her voice again, and a greyness as if a swift cloud had passed across the sun.

“Kay!”

A sharp, cold wind began to blow through the strange and sudden darkness.  He heard her voice calling his name—­felt his numbed body shaken, lifted his head from his arms and sat upright on his bunk in the dim chill of his cabin.

Miss Erith stood beside his bed, wearing her life-suit.

“Kay!  Are you awake?’

“Yes.”

“Then put on your life-suit.  Our destroyers are firing at something.  Quick, please, I’ll help you!”

Dazed, shaken, still mazed by the magic of his dream, not yet clear of its beauty and its passion, he stumbled to his feet in the obscurity.  And he felt her chilled hand aiding him.

“Eve—­I—­thought—­”

“What?”

“I thought your name—­was Eve—­” he stammered.  “I’ve been—­dreaming.”

Then was a silence as he fumbled stupidly with his clothing and life-suit.  The sounds of the guns, rapid, distinct, echoed through the unsteady obscurity.

She helped him as a nurse helps a convalescent, her swift, cold little fingers moving lightly and unerringly.  And at last he was equipped, and his mind had cleared darkly of the golden vision of love and spring.

Icy seas, monstrous and menacing, went smashing past the sealed and blinded port; but there was no wind and the thudding of the guns came distinctly to their ears.

A shape in uniform loomed at the cabin door for an instant and a calm, unhurried voice summoned them.

Corridors were full of dark figures.  The main saloon was thronged as they climbed the companion-way.  There appeared to be no panic, no haste, no confusion.  Voices were moderately low, the tone casually conversational.

Miss Erith’s arm remained linked in McKay’s where they stood together amid the crowd.

“U-boats, I fancy,” she said.

“Probably.”

After a moment:  “What were you dreaming about, Mr. McKay?” she asked lightly.  In the dull bluish dusk of the saloon his boyish face grew hot.

“What was it you called me?” she insisted.  “Was it Eve?”

At that his cheeks burnt crimson.

“What do you mean?” he muttered.

“Didn’t you call me Eve?”

“I—­when a man is dreaming—­asleep—­”

“My name is Evelyn, you know.  Nobody ever called me Eve....  Yet—­it’s odd, isn’t it, Mr. McKay?  I’ve always wished that somebody would call me Eve....  But perhaps you were not dreaming of me?”

“I—­was.”

“Really.  How interesting!” He remained silent.

“And did you call me Eve—­in that dream?...  That is curious, isn’t it, after what I’ve just told you?...  So I’ve had my wish—­in a dream.”  She laughed a little.  “In a dream—­your dream,” she repeated.  “We must have been good friends in your dream—­that you called me Eve.”