“Well enough for two, if we be the two. For I am learning.”
“Adam,” she said, “I might speak seriously to you. I ought to be angry with you”—
“But you are not. It is strange how seldom we are what we should be. I should call you ‘lady,’ as though I were a car conductor, and be most respectful, as befitteth a fisherman”—
“But you are not. Why, Adam?”
“How should I know? It is the nature that God gave me. And those who stand nearest to nature—well, I am learning. Come and sit here, Eve, where I can see you.”
“Now, Adam, really—you must learn. Even a fisherman should not need to be told to stand”—
“Your pardon, madam,” I cried, standing. “You are right, and as I said, I am but a passable fisherman. Did the first man stand, in Paradise? Probably he ran. But I do not, for I can see you well as we are—and that light on your hair, Eve”—
She stamped her foot. “Fisherman,” she cried, “it is too much. I will not stay. Remember that”—
“I am a fisherman. I will,” I said. “And you are a governess.”
Then she laughed, which was what I wanted. I was missing the sun’s good-night, but what of that? For I might see his marvels half the days in the year; but this marvel that I saw—how many days? I wished,—but my wishes are vain. Still, there was I, looking up, and there was she, looking down and smiling yet, and the glory of the west was in her eyes and on her hair.