The Kembles had a wide and easy acquaintance with the aristocracy. Roger and Polly forgot, if the others did not, that they were stage folk. They enjoyed the elegancies of life and knew how to be familiar without being vulgar. Sheila inherited their acquaintance and had been bred to their graces.
Young women and old of social importance made the girl one of their intimates. Any number of more or less nice young plutocrats offered to lead her along the primrose path as far as she would go. But she compelled respect, perhaps with a little extra severity for the sake of her maligned profession. Before many days she would have to return to it, but she was in no hurry.
One morning in the sun-flailed surf she grew weary of the jigging crowd of rope-dancers. Seeing that one of the floats was empty, she swam out to it. It was more of a journey than she thought, for we judge distances as walkers, not as swimmers. She climbed aboard with difficulty and rested, staring out to sea, the boundless sea where big waves came bowing in, nodding their white feathers.
She heard some one else swimming up, but did not look around. She did not want to talk to any of the men she had swum away from. She felt the float tilt as whoever it was sprang from the water and seated himself, dripping. Then she heard a voice with all the morning in it:
“Good morning!”
“Bret Winfield!” she cried, as she whirled on one hip like a mermaid.
“Sheila Kemble!” he laughed.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m not on earth; I’m alone in midocean with you.”
“But what brought you? Where did you come from?”