"Yes, very much."
"Do you like going out with him?"
"No," said Maggie, making a little face, half of disgust and half of derision. "No. His hands are all dirty, and he smells of fish."
Majendie laughed. "There are drawbacks, I must own, to Steve."
He looked at his watch, an action Maggie hated. It always suggested finality, departure.
"Ten o'clock, Maggie. I must be up at six to-morrow. We sail at seven."
"At seven," echoed Maggie in despair.
They were up at six. Maggie went with him to the creek, to see him sail. In the garden she picked a chrysanthemum and stuck it in his buttonhole, forgetting that he couldn't wear her token. There were so many things he couldn't do.
A little rain still fell through a clogging mist. They walked side by side, treading the drenched grass, for the track was too narrow for them both. Maggie's feet dragged, prolonging the moments.
A white pointed sail showed through the mist, where the little yacht lay in the river off the mouth of the creek.