Elim, recalling Joshua, wished that the sloop and night were anchored,
stationary. Already he smelled the dawn in a newly stirring, cold air.
The darkness thickened. Rosemary Roselle said:
"I'm dreadfully hungry."
He immediately produced the fruit cake.
"It's really quite satisfactory," she continued, eating; "It's like the
rest of this--unreal.... What is your name?" she demanded unexpectedly.
"Elim Meikeljohn."
"That's a very Northern sort of name."
"It would be hard to come by one more so," he agreed. "It's from the
highlands of Scotland."
"Then if you don't mind, I'll think of you as Scotch right now."
He conveyed to her the fact that he didn't.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "There's the morning!"
A thin gray streak widened across the east. Almost immediately the
night dissolved. They were sweeping down the middle of a river that
surprised Elim with its width and majesty. The withdrawn banks bore
clustered trees, undulating green reached inland, the shaded facades of
houses sat back on lawns that dipped to the stream.
Rosemary Roselle's face was pale with fatigue; her eyes appeared
preternaturally large; and this, for Elim, made her charm infinitely
more appealing. She smoothed her dress, touched her hair with light
fingers. The intimacy of it all thrilled him. A feeling of happy
irresponsibility deepened. He lost sight of the probable unhappiness of
tomorrow, the catastrophe that was yesterday; Elim was radiantly
content with the present.
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