“Truly,” I answered, “I am your fisherman, whether you will or not,—and for as long as I have life.”
“The time is not yet, fisherman,” she said. “Remember.”
“It is hard to remember, governess, even for a fisherman.”
“I did not know you, Adam,” she said. “You should have told me.”
“What, Eve? That a fisherman may have decent raiment? But I am well-to-do—for a fisherman.”
“Come,” said she, “let us go, or we shall be late to the clambake.”
“With all my heart,” I answered, “though it matters not if we are late. For there is but one guest.”
“There will be two, Adam.”
“Two!” I cried. “I have asked but one. If it is that certain rich man, I give you warning he shall have no clams of mine, but I will cast him into the sea.”
“It is my father, Adam,” she replied. “He is here and would see a clambake, so I asked him.”