"Don't you want him?" the little captain demanded of Bettina.
"Of course," in the tone of one to whom it didn't really matter. "Perhaps he can help you with the boat, captain."
Justin, carrying Miss Matthews' bag, helping the captain over with the supplies, lifting Bettina over the side of the boat with strong arms which yearned to show their strength, was in a mental attitude far removed from his King Cophetua mood of the earlier morning. He was at this moment a slave chained to Bettina's chariot wheel. And the strange part of it was that he gloried in his chains! He realized that he was going out with her on a forced invitation, but he was going! And the sea was like sapphire, and the sun shone!
Little Miss Matthews, looking back afterward on that glorified fishing trip, was forced to confess that Justin left nothing undone for her which could be done. Never in her life had she been deferred to by such a charming youth, never had her little budget of small talk received such respectful consideration, never had she been waited on, hand and foot, by such a cavalier!
Rarely did Justin's eyes stray to where Bettina sat beside the captain, chatting to him in her confiding voice, making his old heart happy by her interest in his sea-seasoned reminiscences.
It was really a most altruistic performance. One might have imagined that for Justin there was just one woman in the world—Miss Matthews; and for Bettina, just one man—Captain Stubbs. Yet, as the little boat rounded the lighthouse point and came into the rougher waters outside, young hearts were thrilling to the sound of young voices, and the music of the spheres was being played to the accompaniment of beating waves.
When at last they anchored, the fishing was really incidental. To be sure it was exciting, and they had an excellent catch, but Bettina's hat was off and Justin could see her hair. And Justin, standing up in the bow of the boat with his line outflung, was, in Bettina's eyes, more than ever like a young Olympian god.
It was the same at lunch time. They landed on a crescent-shaped strip of beach, backed by rocky walls, where there was plenty of driftwood for their fire. There the captain gave his mind to the making of chowder, and Miss Matthews rendered expert service in the cutting up of onions and potatoes, and in the frying of salt pork.
Justin opened the pickle bottle and did other prosaic and ungodlike acts, and Bettina laid the table on the sands like a real girl instead of a transported nymph, yet each saw the other through a golden haze which magnified the most trivial act and made it important.
Thus, when Bettina set four blue bowls at exact geometric distances on the cloth, Justin thought not of the bowls, but of Bettina's slim white hands; and likewise Justin, gathering driftwood, commended himself to Bettina not for his industry, but for his swinging walk and square shoulders.