For the first time it occurred to him that in this occult experience she had not uttered one jarring note. She had not asked questions, nor had she tried to argue with him, as other women would have, telling him he fancied all this. Nor had she bothered him with vain, unwelcome sentiment. She had just--stood by, as at sea. And how swiftly she had divined his need of privacy, of his own ship! "There are none like you in this world, Claire-Anne," he told her. "I am what you make me, Shane--what you need of me." Her hand sought his in the stilly dusk. "Come back only when you are ready dearest ... dearest ... I am here! Always here!" Section 8 Though she never said so, yet he knew she wanted to go on board the ship that was so much of his life, and one day he had her rowed across to the _Ulster Lady_. He smiled as he saw how firmly she got on board, though ships were unknown to her. Queer, how she never lost dignity, grace. And it was so easy for a woman to look silly, undignified, getting on board ship. She never disappointed him.... She mused over the sweet line of the schooner, the tapering masts, the snug canvas, the twinkling brass. The wake of a passing paddle-steamer made the boat pitch gently. It was like breathing. "She is so much a pretty lady," Claire-Anne said. "So much like you, Shane, in a way. She might be a young sister--a young, loved sister. And where is your place on board when she sails?" He pointed her out the space behind wheel and binnacle. "Whenever there's any need, I'm there, just there." "And Shane, great waves like you see in pictures--great enormous waves, does she stand those?" "Yes, great waves, like you see in pictures, she stands those. Drives through them, and over them, and under them." "And Solomon said"--she was just thinking aloud--"that he couldn't understand the way of a ship on the sea. And he was immensely wise. Dearest ... it can't be just wood and canvas, a ship ... power and grace and beauty.... It's like great people...." "They're as different as people are, Claire-Anne." "Are they, Shane? I knew they weren't ... just things." He took her below in the dusk of his cabin. She filled the space like some gracious green tree. "And here is where I live on board ship." The Aberdeen terrier came forward to greet her, his tail waving gently, his ears up, his brown eyes grave and warm. "_Duine uasal! Duine uasal!_" she knelt to him. "You remember?" He minded he had told her casually of the dog's name. "Of course I remember! Shane, what does _Duine uasal_ mean?" "_Gentilhomme_," he translated. "He has the eyes," she said. The framed manuscript of his father's verses caught her eyes, and she looked at him in inquiry. "What is it?" "A poem of my father's, in Gaidhlig, Claire-Anne. 'The Bed of Rushes.'" "How queer the letters are! Slim and graceful, and powerful, too. Would you read it, Shane?"