Peter was perhaps, the most whole-heartedly happy of any of us. Never very far from Silas's side, he assumed a lordly dictatorship over the natives, and picked up an amazing amount of Spanish, in his excursions about the plantation. Silas taught him to ride, too, on a lean little Cuban horse, and would ride out with him, in the early mornings, tremendously amused at the grave manner in which Peter would return the white-toothed salutations of the passersby. In those days, also, I elected to oversee Peter's neglected education, and, with more ambition than efficiency, would devote the half hour before his supper time to teaching him to read. Bill, with his pipe and his newspaper, would attend these sessions, from a far corner of the room. And I could not refrain from reflecting how, to an unenlightened observer, very domestic we would appear. That the thought had not escaped Bill, too, was apparent by a remark he made one evening. Coming to the mantel-piece, he looked at the two of us for some time, and said,
"You make a charming picture, you two children. Exemplary," he added with a smile.
I made no comment, but bent lower over the page on which the pregnant legend, "This is a cat," appeared in large letters, flanking an appropriate illustration.
Those were days, even, and uneventful in the larger sense. There were varying episodes, incidents, which however did not break into the continuity of a life that seemed a half-waking dream. Once, I went fishing with Bill and Bobby Willard. It was pleasant, drifting over the peacock-blue waters, and of our not inconsiderable catch nothing remains in my memory save the almost unnatural beauty of certain gorgeous fish, colored red and blue and purple, with little sail-like fins.
I had my first swimming lesson in many years, at that time too. And the picture of the beach, the feel of the velvet-soft, brilliantly blue water, the laughing people and the many children, stayed with me for a long time. At my second dip, I actually swam three strokes, not, however, without Bill's solidly protective arm. He swam magnificently himself. Mercedes Howells, transformed into a most seductive mermaid by a bright green bathing suit, was most outspoken in her admiration.
"What a wonderful figure," she said, in a wholly audible aside to me.
I was forced to agree, but swallowed a good deal more water than was comfortable in the process.
Bill, in spite of his vigorous exploits in the water, seemed content to spend most of his swimming hour with Peter and me. But after he had sent us to the bathing pavilion to dress, he swam far out to join Mercedes, and when I came from my cubicle again, they were just coming out of the water together, a splendidly matched pair, laughing, vital. A curious languor came over me as I watched them walking across the beach.
"You're tired," said Bill, dripping before me.
"A little," I admitted.