Mr. Saltus turned, but a wave was quicker. It took him like a top, spinning him around and around, depositing him finally at my feet. He attempted to rise. The undertow thought otherwise. With his accustomed facetious flattery, he asked:
"What do I get for lying at the feet of a child?"
"A kick," was the reply, action following the words.
Our introduction was effected. Going up on the beach we sat down on the sand. It was a brilliant July morning.
"So you think you would like to write, Bambina? Don't. Take fatherly advice. A woman's sole duty in life is to charm and do nothing. Only old scoundrels like myself should work. Behold the result."
"You were badly brought up," he was told.
"How would you have tackled the job?" he inquired.
"Taking you down would have suited me much better."
That amused him. He laughed.
"Of course. It is only from babes like you that age learns now-a-days. How is it that you are the one of your family I meet last?" He hesitated. "No—not last,—for I seem always to have remembered you. Long ago you closed a door and left me in darkness. Now you open it again and smile. You should never do anything but smile,—and yet you have—oh, I don't know what! You take me back to Rome—back and back through lives and lives—if such were true."