she fetched a chair and drew it up beside his. “It’s quite chilly this morning isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” he agreed. “When I woke up this morning and felt all that cold wind and the boat going up and down, I didn’t know what we were into. I didn’t feel so good this morning, anyway, and with the boat going up and down like it was . . . it’s still now, though. Looks like they went in closer to the bank and parked it this time.”
“Yes, it seems to me we're closer than we were last night.” When she was settled he sat also, and presently he forgot and put his feet back on the rail. Then he remembered and removed them.
“Why, how did you manage to get a paper this morning? Did we put in shore somewhere last night?” she asked, raising her feet to the rail.
For some reason he felt uncomfortable about his paper. “It’s just an old piece,” he explained lamely. “I found it downstairs somewhere. It kind of kept my mind off of how bad I felt.” He made a gesture repudiating it.
“Don’t throw it away,” she said quickly, “go on—don’t let me interrupt if you found something interesting in it. I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. Perhaps you'll feel better after breakfast.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed, without conviction. “I don’t feel much like breakfast, waking up like I did and feeling kind of bad, and the boat going up and down too.”
“You'll get over that, I’m sure.” She leaned nearer to see the paper. It was a single sheet of a Sunday magazine section: a depressing looking article in small print about Romanesque architecture, interspersed with blurred indistinguishable photographs. “Are you interested in architecture?” she asked intensely.
“I guess not,” he replied. “I was just looking it over until
