The Sea Again
Once more the swish of spray against the side of a ship, the tang
of salt, the lift and fall of the rail against the sea-line on the
horizon. And once more a girl, in white from neck to heel, facing
into the wind as if she loved it, her crisp skirts flying, her hair
blown back from her forehead in damp curls.
flannels and a good cigar, I am lounging in a deck-chair, watching
her. Then-"Come here!" I say.
"I am busy."
"You are not busy. You are disgracefully idle."
"Why do you want me?"
She comes closer, and looks down at me. She likes me to sit, so
she may look superior and scornful, this being impossible when one
looks up. When she has approached-"Just to show that I can order you about."
"I shall go back!"--with raised chin. How I remember that raised
chin, and how (whisper it) I used to fear it!
"You cannot. I am holding the edge of your skirt."
"Ralph! And all the other passengers looking!"
"Then sit down--and, before you do, tuck that rug under my feet,
will you?"
"Certainly not."
"Under my feet!"
She does it, under protest, whereon I release her skirts. She is
sulky, quite distinctly sulky. I slide my hand under the rug into
her lap. She ignores it.
"Now," I say calmly, "we are even. And you might as well hold my
hand. Every one thinks you are."
