Beyond the wharf the great yellow flood of the river gleamed in the
sun; choirs of robins whistled in trees faintly green. Rosemary Roselle
was seated with her feet hanging over the water.
"Champagne for breakfast," she observed, shaking her head; "only the
most habitual sports manage that." He recounted the episode of the
"Yankee army," delighted by her less formal tone, then the old man
returned as enigmatically as he had disappeared. The ropes were cast
off, the sloop swung out into the current, and their smooth progress
was resumed.
A few more hours and they would be at Bramant's Wharf. There, Elim
knew, he would be expected to leave Rosemary. There would be a
perfunctory gratitude from her relatives, perhaps a warmer appreciation
from herself--a moment--a momentary pressure of her hand--and then--
where? He would never again come in contact with so exquisite a girl;
they were, he realized, customarily held in a circle where men like
himself, outsiders, rarely penetrated; once more with her family and he
would be forgotten. Anyhow, he had nothing.
But in spite of these heavy reflections his irresponsible happiness
increased. In this segment of existence no qualifications from the
shore were valid. Time, himself, at the tiller, seemed drifting,
unconcerned. Rosemary Roselle regarded Elim with a franker interest.
She took off a small slipper and emptied some sand from the shore; the
simple act seemed to him burdened with gracious warmth.
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