“Please, please,” she said, “you must let me go. My brother’s waiting for me and he’ll be nervous.”
He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with his bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. “Why—why should you want to paint me?”
“Because,” he said, “you are beautiful. What is beautiful dies, but I—I make it last for always.” Then, in a gentler voice, “Because, little English girl, if I don’t paint you, we may never meet again.”
It was the way in which he said it—the thrilling sadness of his tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her embarrassment. “But, Mr. Neptune, I’ve thanked you and—and it was your fault that we met—and isn’t it rather rude of you to prevent me from——?”
“No,” he spoke deliberately, “not rude. You’re adorable—too good to die. I want to make you live forever. If I were Mr. Neptune, d’you know what I’d do? I’d swim off with you, earth-maiden.”
Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. “I promise. You shall paint me.”
She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His eyes flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. “When the English promise anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?”
She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost liked him.
“Where will you paint me?” she asked.
“Here, against the sky. It’s the color of your eyes. We’re going to be friends—is it so?” He stepped aside. “Then, little English girl, good-night.”