He did not recognise her. He had seen too many people in seven years to keep the foggy figure of that distant November evening in his mind.
"I'm coming in," she called, digging her paddle into the water.
"Sit still!" he shouted.
"But I want to talk."
"Sit still!"
She sat still, watching him, unable to believe her good fortune. If he were only here again for a single day and she could only talk to him for a single hour, what a refreshment, what a delight: to talk in English; to talk to some one who had painted Judith; to talk to some one so wonderful; to talk at all! She was as little shy as a person stranded on a desert island would be of anybody, kings included, who should appear after years on the solitary beach.
"Well?" she called, after sitting patiently for what she felt must be half an hour but which was five minutes.
He did not answer, absorbed in what he was doing.
She waited for what seemed another half-hour, and then turned the punt in the direction of the shore.
"I'm coming in," she called; and as he did not answer she paddled towards the bay.