Fanny Trehearne's sunburned cheeks grew pale under their tan, and her cool grey eyes turned slowly away from his face, and rested on the blue water.
"Please don't talk about such things!" she said in a tone that seemed hard to Lawrence.
"Are you afraid of death?" he asked, still smiling.
"I?" She turned upon him indignantly. "No—I don't believe that I'm much afraid of anything—for myself."
"You turned pale," observed the young man, raising himself on his elbow as he lay on the cushions, and looking at her. Her colour came back more quickly than it had gone.
"Did I?" she asked indifferently enough. "It's probably the sun. It's hot, lying here and drifting."
"No. It wasn't the sun," said Lawrence, with conviction. "You were thinking that somebody you are fond of might die suddenly. We were talking about death."
"What difference does it make whom I was thinking of?" She spoke impatiently now, still watching the water.
