Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was breathlessly unequal to it.
Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like to hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while they idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking gulls above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, glaring down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all.
'The shade does feel good,' said she.
Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn't even speak.
He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing male.
'I like to skip stones,' he managed to say, with husky self-consciousness. He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, until his face shone with sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt between his shoulders.
To her, 'Better let me hold your glasses,' he responded with an irritable shake of the head.
But such physical violence couldn't go on indefinitely. Not in this heat. He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why he couldn't grasp his opportunity.
He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment would have thrilled him.
She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, and did a phrase over, as if she were practising.