He gazed impatiently over the unscored tide and saw a dark infinitesimal blot.
“I have been watching it for a long while,” she continued. “It's coming closer, I think.”
He again took up his planning.
“We'll stay two or three years; till things get on their feet here. Turn the bakery into a company. No work, nothing but parties.”
“Do look!” she repeated. “It's coming in—a little boat. I suppose it is empty.”
The blot was now near enough for him to distinguish its outline. As Meta said, no one was visible. It was drifting. Against his wish his gaze fastened on the approaching boat. It hesitated, appeared to swing away, and then resumed the progress inshore.
“I believe it will float into that cut in the beach below,” he told her.
His attention was divided between the craft and the image of all the pleasures he would introduce to Meta—Turnbull. It was a lucky circumstance that he had plenty of money, for he realized that she would not marry a poor man. This was not only natural but commendable. Poor men were fools, too weak for success; only the strong ate white bread and had fine women, only the masterful conquered circumstance.
“Come,” she said, catching his hand; “it's almost here.”
She half pulled him over the glistening wet sand to where the deeper water thrust into the beach. Her interest was now fully communicated to him.