They ate, with only the voice of the gulls, screaming, flying in disturbed, beautiful flight over the wide, lone island.
"Now for the gulls' eggs," said Vesty, rising, no dishes to put away.
"What a carnivorous little wild-cat it is—for one so necessary to the sick and afflicted!"
"Didn't you come to hunt gulls' eggs, Note?"
"You know that that is my sole aim and ambition in life. Come!"
Over ledges and salt marshes, at the feet of the thin, storm-broken trees, they found them, nestled there, three, four, eight in a nest, the birds flying, circling overhead. Vesty gathered them in her apron, eager, searching from tree to tree. Her hair came down. She looked up at Note, apologetic, humble, so eager she hardly minded.
"Hold my apron, Note."
This he did obediently.
With downcast eyes and a blush on her cheeks that would have exonerated Eve, she wound up her hair again, and restored her own hold on her apron.
"I did not kiss you then, Vesty."