A wind quartering from the
shore had smoothed the ocean into the semblance of a limitless and
placid lake. Minute waves ruffled along the beach with a continuous
whispering, and the vault of the west, from which the sun had just
withdrawn, was filled with light the color of sauterne wine.
It was inconceivable to August Turnbull that soon Emmy would be gone
out of his life. He shook his thick shoulders as if by a gesture to
unburden himself of her unpleasant responsibility. He smiled slightly
at the memory of how he had come to fear her. It had been the result of
the strain he was under; once more the vision of mountainous bread and
Emmy returned. The devil was in the woman!
"What are you smiling at?" Meta asked.
"Perhaps it was because my luck, as well, has changed," he admitted.
She came close up to him, quivering with emotion.
"I want everything!" she cried in a vibrant hunger; "everything! Do you
understand? Are you willing? I'm starved as much as that woman up in
her bed. Can you give me all the gayety, all the silks and emeralds
there are in the world?"
He patted her shoulder. "You'll look like a Christmas tree. When this
damned war is over we will go to Europe, to Berlin and Munich. They
have the finest streets and theaters and cafes in the world. There
things are run by men for men. The food is the best of all--no French
fripperies, but solid rare cuts. Drinking is an art----"
"What is that out in the water?" she idly demanded.
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