Jeannette caught him about the neck and they pressed their lips and wet faces together.
“Mart—Mart!” she cried. “It’s just like our honeymoon, isn’t it?”
He strained her to him, kissing her dripping hair and cheeks, his arms entwined about her, his face stretched wide with laughter and excitement.
“My God, Jan,” he said with almost a groan of feeling, “my God, I love you when you’re this way! You’re just wonderful!”
Her shining eyes were his answer, and he caught her to him again to kiss her fiercely.
A wave suddenly plunged over them. Jeannette felt herself wrenched from his embrace, felt him stumbling on the sand in the big effort he made to keep his footing. Even in that brief frightening moment, when she was totally submerged and they were being dragged apart, she was conscious of the great strength of the man, of arms suddenly taut as steel cables, of fingers and hands that gripped her like grappling hooks of iron and pitted their might against the might of the sea. The tumultuous plunge of water rushed headlong on its course, but Martin stood firm and pulled her to him.
They clung together once more, and laughing like children faced another menacing attack of the ocean.
§ 2
Later as she lay prone upon the hot, hard sand, baking in the sun’s delicious heat, her hair spread out behind her on a towel to dry, she watched her husband with Etta in his arms again encountering the waves. The little girl’s arms were tight around his neck and she screamed with excitement whenever the water foamed and welled up about them. The child was not frightened; it was remarkable to observe the unusual confidence the little girl had in her uncle. A fine figure of a man, mused his wife; his limbs had the form of sculpture and his body, shining now with the glitter of wet bronze, showed every muscle rippling beneath the skin like writhing snakes. He was indeed a husband to be proud of, a husband any woman might envy her. She must never let his love for her grow less; he must always be in love with her, not merely have an affectionate regard for her as most men had for their wives. He was lying on the beach, now, and Etta was covering him with sand, screaming shrilly each time he stirred and cracked the mold she was patting into shape about him.
“You bad, Uncle Martin,” came the child’s piping voice; “you be a good man and lie still.”