For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her chin in her hand, she stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate out there without him! How many hours since he left she had watched people pass back and forth along the broad path, as if hoping against hope that by some chance he might suddenly appear among them. But he never did, and she knew that she might sit here watching year after year and he would not come.
By this time he was probably in England—probably, on such a day as this, out upon the links. She smiled a little. "Damn golf!" he had said.
She thought for a moment that she heard his voice repeating it. It was only Peter's voice.
"You have grown even more beautiful than I thought," Peter was saying.
She sprang to her feet. He was looking at he—shading his opened eyes with one hand.
"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.
"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.
"More beautiful," he repeated. "But your eyes are sadder."