For a moment she was held out above the sea, her flight arrested. Blue eyes bent over her laughing. She was swung back. She found herself lying on the sun-scorched turf. The man was kneeling beside her, chafing her hands and forehead. Her faintness left her. As she gazed up at him, he smiled and said something in an unintelligible language. She sat up bewildered, trying to appear brave. “I’m—I’m all right, thank you. I’ll go now.”
“Ah, a little English girl!” His voice was deep and pleasant.
She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he was for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. “I’m really all right. It was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.—Mr. Neptune.”
“Mr. Neptune!” He plucked at his red beard and planted himself in front of her. His eyes twinkled. “Strange little English girl, why do you call me that?”
“Because you came out of the sea. And d’you know, before I go I want to tell you—I was awfully afraid you’d get drowned. Do you always swim when you come to the castle?”
Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large and masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had been using. She was conscious that, in his artist’s way, he was looking not so much at her as at her body.
“Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, Byron, was the last to do it. Thought I’d try just for sport, as you English call it.”
“I wouldn’t do it again,” she said wisely; “and now I must really go.”
He didn’t budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with amusement. “Going! Not till you’ve promised to let me paint your portrait.”
Kay was astounded and—yes, and flattered. He might be a great artist; he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more frightened than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow twilight.