The day was superb, the sky sparkled like a great blue sun; schools of young mangrove snappers swept through the pellucid water. The woman said:
“Where did you come from and where are you going?”
“Cape Cod,” he replied; “and I am going to the Guianas.”
“Isn’t that South America?” she queried. “I’ve traveled far—on maps. Guiana,” she repeated the name softly. For a moment the faint dread in her voice changed to longing. “I think I know all the beautiful names of places on the earth,” she continued: “Tarragona and Seriphos and Cambodia.”
“Some of them you have seen?”
“None,” she answered simply. “I was born here, in the house you know, and I have never been fifty miles away.”
This, he told himself, was incredible. The mystery that surrounded her deepened, stirring more strongly his impersonal curiosity.
“You are surprised,” she added; “it’s mad, but true. There—there is a reason.” She stopped abruptly, and, neglecting her fishing rod, sat with her hands clasped about slim knees. She gazed at him slowly, and he was impressed once more by the remarkable quality of her eyes, grey-green like olive leaves and strangely young. The momentary interest created in her by romantic and far names faded, gave place to the familiar trace of fear. In the long past he would have responded immediately to the appeal of her pale, magnetic countenance.... He had broken all connection with society, with—
There was a sudden, impressive jerk at his line, the rod instantly assumed the shape of a bent bow, and, as he rose, the reel spindle was lost in a grey blur and the line streaked out through the dipping tip. His companion hung breathless at his shoulder.
“He’ll take all your line,” she lamented as the fish continued his straight, outward course, while Woolfolk kept an even pressure on the rod.