He stole a glance. She wasn't even looking at him. She had sunk back on an elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be observing the gulls, rather absently.
Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her.
'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he.
She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on.
'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count. Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.'
Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been through. I wouldn't tell you.'
The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she asked, after a pause, 'Why not?'
'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.'
'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear her talk about you.'
'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?'