He gazed impatiently over the unscored tide and saw a dark
infinitesimal blot.
"I have been watching it for a long while," she continued. "It's coming
closer, I think."
He again took up his planning.
"We'll stay two or three years; till things get on their feet here.
Turn the bakery into a company. No work, nothing but parties."
"Do look!" she repeated. "It's coming in--a little boat. I suppose it
is empty."
The blot was now near enough for him to distinguish its outline. As
Meta said, no one was visible. It was drifting. Against his wish his
gaze fastened on the approaching boat. It hesitated, appeared to swing
away, and then resumed the progress inshore.
"I believe it will float into that cut in the beach below," he told
her.
His attention was divided between the craft and the image of all the
pleasures he would introduce to Meta--Turnbull. It was a lucky
circumstance that he had plenty of money, for he realized that she
would not marry a poor man. This was not only natural but commendable.
Poor men were fools, too weak for success; only the strong ate white
bread and had fine women, only the masterful conquered circumstance.
"Come," she said, catching his hand; "it's almost here."
She half pulled him over the glistening wet sand to where the deeper
water thrust into the beach. Her interest was now fully communicated to
him.
"We must drag it safely up," he articulated, out of breath from her
eagerness.
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