For answer Mistress Huntoon pointed through the window to where Romney sat on the edge of the wharf vexing the placid breast of the York River by a volley of pebbles, flipped between his thumb and forefinger.
As the boy sat thus idly occupied, his hand full of pebbles, his head full of bitter thoughts, his heart of a curious numbness, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, but he did not turn.
"Master Huntoon!"
No answer.
"Romney!"
"Ay."
"Of what art thou thinking?"
"Nothing."
"And what dost thou think of when thou art thinking of nothing?"
"A woman's promise."