IN WHICH IS NO RAPPROCHEMENT WITH THE FAIR CAPTIVE
“HARRY!” I heard her call, and turned quickly. “Harry, wait!”
She came hurrying up toward me. I felt my color rise. Awkwardly, I stood waiting, and did not greet her. I cast a quick glance the other way down the beach. It would be a hundred yards before the first bend of the shore-line would carry us behind the tall rushes. Meantime, we were in full sight of all.
Partial, who had followed me when I whistled, now greeted her more joyously than did his master.
“Yes?” said I dully; “I suppose you came to take away my dog from me, didn’t you? It was all that was left.”
“Of course,” said she coloring. “I didn’t know but what Partial might be hungry.”
“It is I who am hungry, Helena,” said I. “I have long been hungry—for a look, a word.”
She did not smile, showed not any trace of coquetry in her mien, but paced on with me now down the beach. I suppose she knew when we had turned the point of rushes, for now she laid her hand on my rough canvas sleeve. It must have cost her effort to do that.
“Harry, what’s wrong with you?” said she after a time, since I still remained moodily staring ahead. I did not answer, would not look at her for a time, but at length she turned. She stood, I say, with her hand on my arm, her chin raised fully, her serious eyes fixed on me. The dark hair was blown all about her face. She had on over her long white sweater a loose silk waterproof of some sort, which blew every way, but did not disturb the lines of her tall figure, nor lessen the pale red and white which the sea breeze had stung into her cheeks. She did not smile, and her eyes, I say, looked steadily and seriously into mine.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, frowning slightly, as it seemed to me.