“Thanks,” he said. “Same to you, Nino. Villa Stanier; you know.”
Violet was waiting at the edge of the beach. The midday steamer had just come in from Naples, and now there was no need to hurry, for the funicular would certainly wait for the passengers who were landing in small boats at the quay.
“Nice bathe, darling?” she said as Colin joined her.
Colin found himself mildly irritated by her always saying “darling.” She could not speak to him without that adjunct, which might surely be taken for granted.
“Yes, darling,” he said. “Lovely bathe, darling. And you, darling?”
There was certainly an obtuseness about Violet which had not been hers in the old days. She seemed to perceive no impression of banter, however good-natured, in this repetition. Instead, that slight flush, which Colin now knew so well, spread over her face.
“Yes, darling, the water was lovely,” she said. “Like warm silk.”
“Ugh!” said Colin. “Fancy swimming about in silk. What horrible ideas you have.”
“Don’t be so literal,” said she. “Just a silky feeling. Look at these boat-loads of people. Aren’t they queer? That little round red one, like a tomato, just getting out.”
Colin followed her glance; there was no doubt whom she meant, for the description was exactly apt. But even as he grinned at the vividness of her vegetable simile, a sense of recognition twanged at his memory. The past, which he had thought over this morning, was sharply recalled, and somehow, somehow, the future entered into it.