We're off to Rio Bay."
He had struck the path that ran by the bottom of the garden, and swaggered along it with the seaman's peculiar rolling gait, accentuated by strong liquor. Caro felt him coming nearer, and told herself uneasily that she had better go back into the house. He was drunk, and he might speak to her. Still she did not move, she found herself clinging to the gate, leaning her breast against it, while her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth.
He was quite close—she could hear the thud of his step on the soft earth. Her hands grasped the two gate-posts, and she leaned forward over the gate, so that her face caught the faint radiance that still lingered in the zenith. He had stopped singing, but she could see him now distinctly—a tall, loosely-built figure, with dark face, and woolly hair like a nigger's, while his seaman's earrings caught the starlight.
He drew level with her, not seeing her. She did not move, she scarcely breathed, and he had almost passed her ... then suddenly his eyes turned and met hers.
"Hello, Susan!"
He stood swaying before her on his heels, his hands in his trouser-pockets, his head a little on one side. Caro did not speak—she could not.
"What time is it, dear?"
"I—I dunno," she faltered, her voice sounding squeaky and unlike her own: "it might be nine."
"It might be Wales or Madagasky,
It might be Rio de Janeiro."