The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.”
There was the most perfect picture of the tropical island.
Some months after we had returned to England I found the Enoch Arden volume lying on the door at Dorothy's feet. She was roseate with indignation as I entered the room. I paused for an explanation.
It came. She touched the book with her foot—it was a symbolic spurn—as much as any one with a conscience could give to a royal-blue tooled morocco binding.
“How could he do it?” she cried.
“Do what?”
“Those two lines at the end. Listen to this”—she picked up the book with a sort of indignant snatch:—
“'There came so loud a calling of the sea
That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad