“We have had a pleasant clambake, have we not? Such a feast as I never had.”
I made no reply.
“Fisherman,” she said then, “you should make some pretty speech.”
“Is it for a fisherman,” I asked, “to make pretty speeches? He must catch his fish and dig his clams.”
“You have changed so, Adam,” she said, reproaching.
“It is not I have changed,” I answered.
Still I would not look at her, but she was silent, and I knew her smile was gone.
“And is there nothing more?” she asked. “Is it ended?”
“It is ended,” I said. “Even the stones grow cold.”
“Adam,” she cried, “why will you be so contrary? It is not ended. I will not have it so.”