"George, my boy!" I soliloquised, "that ought to satisfy you."
But it did not. In the frame of mind I then was in, nothing could possibly have propitiated me.
As I dropped to sleep, the phrase recurred again and again: "You are a brave and very gallant gentleman." That,—maybe,—but after all a poor and humble gentleman working for wages in a country store;—so, why worry?
Next morning, although it was not the day any steamer was due, I ran the white flag to the top of the pole at the point of the rocks, in the hope that Rita would see it and take it as a signal that I wished to speak with her; and so save me a trip across, for I expected some of the men from the Camps and I never liked to be absent or to keep them waiting.
Just before noon, Rita presented herself.
"Say, George!—what's the rag up for? Did you forget what day of the week it was, or is it your birthday?
"I brought you a pie, in case it might be your anniversary. Made it this morning."
I laughed to the bright little lass who stood before me with eyes dancing mischievously, white teeth showing and the pink of her cheeks glowing through the olive tint of her skin.
The more I saw of Rita, the prettier she seemed in my eyes, for she was lively and agile, trim, neat and beautifully rounded, breathing always of fragrant and exuberant health.
"Sit down beside me on the steps here, Rita," I said. "I want to talk to you. That is why I put the flag up.