To Merrington’s surprise, when he appeared on the beach in his swimming suit, Jacqueline was already in the surf. This tacit avoidance of him banished the smile from his lips for a moment as her more positive combativeness had not been able to do.
That he was really in love at last, Merrington knew beyond the possibility of a doubt. He knew it, because in all the twenty-six years of his petted life he had never experienced anything like this peaceful elation underlying all the tremor of his senses. Jacqueline disdained him; he recognized that fact, but it caused him no more genuine annoyance than the breaking upon him, when he entered the surf that was now rolling in before him, of the waves which his manhood delighted to buffet and overcome. For much favoring had never spoiled the sweetness of his character, and he met resistance with a healthy determination.
He strolled into the surf, and a great billow lifted Jacqueline into his arms. He held her firmly as another followed close upon.
“I hate the surf,” she gasped, blinded and helpless. “It does exactly with you what you do not want.”
“Do you think so? Now rise to this one.”
He lifted her over a magnificent roller, turning to watch it break, and sweep inward the less daring bathers near shore.
“Why did you not wait for me?” he asked.
“I never for a moment thought it necessary.”
He looked delighted.
“Is it very hard for you to accept the inevitable, Miss Selwyn?”