sound of the sea. Becky caught her breath. "On dark nights I like to think how it must look to the ships beyond the shoals——"
"The sea is cruel," said Cope; "that's why I don't paint it."
"Oh, it isn't always cruel."
"When isn't it? Last year, with the submarines, it was—a monster. I saw a picture once in a gallery, 'The Eternal Siren,' just the sea. And a woman asked, 'Where's the Siren?'"
Becky laughed. "If you had sailor blood in you, you wouldn't feel that way. Ask Grandfather."
"The Admiral is prejudiced. He loves—the siren——"
"He would tell you that the sea isn't a siren. It's a bold, blustering lass like the Whistling Sally out there in the front yard. Man has tamed her even if he hasn't quite mastered her."
"He will never master her. She will go on and on, after we are dead, through the ages, wooing men to—destruction——"
Becky shivered. "I hate to think of things—after we are dead."
"Do you? I don't. I like to think way beyond the ages to the time when there shall be no more sea——"