She paused as if hesitating to go on with her undressing. A twig snapped. She came to her knees and looked about, startled, then subsided again, tranquil and sure of her solitude.
She stood in the moonlight, naked. My gaze grew fat with pleasure as it fed on her nakedness....
She stepped down to the water's edge, dabbling her outstretched toes in the flow.
Ankle-deep, she stood and stooped. She scooped up water and dashed it over her breasts. She rose erect a moment and gazed idly about.
Then, binding her hair in a careful knot, she went in with a plunge and I saw that she could swim well.
My heart shook and thundered so that its pulse pervaded all my body with its violence. I held in curb a mad, almost irresistible impulse to rush in after her, crying out that I was a poet ... that this was the true romance ... that we must throw aside the conventions ... that no one would ever know.
Then I thought of my skinniness and ugliness in comparison with her slight but perfect beauty. And I knew that it would repel her. And I held still in utter shame, not being good-looking enough to join her in the river.
I lay prone, almost fainting, dizzy, not having the strength to creep away, as I now considered I must do.
I saw her return and watched her as she slowly resumed her clothes, piece by leisurely piece. She folded her camp stool, packed her small easel in a case and started off toward town.