And when I was all arrayed I set out along the shore, and my heart-beat was too high, by far; but my spirits were high, too, so that I scarce kept from singing aloud, or from waving my arms and shouting at the deep-sounding sea. But I remembered that certain Rich man that I was to meet. What would he think of a clammer that sang aloud, by himself,—and most outrageously,—or that shouted an occasional line from Homer—what could he think, but that I knew no better—and no more? So I strode along the shore and came to the bank where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone in the sun; for the storm had spared them. And I sat not down, but paced to and fro. And soon came Eve, and up leaped my heart into my throat and choked me; and behind her came Old Goodwin and that other Rich man. A moment only Eve smiled at me and then she stood aside. And that other Rich man stepped forward and broke in upon Old Goodwin’s speech; for he would have introduced us.
“We need no introduction,” he said. “Thanks seem a poor thing enough to give in return for my life, but I can offer you no more.”
I took the hand he held out, and I murmured something, I know not what, about its being of no consequence,—which, indeed, it was not, though I should not have said so. And we looked each other up and down, and either measured other. And what he thought of me I did not know—nor care.
So we wended along the shore to the steep path, and Eve walked beside me. She was not in white now, for it was cool, with a sharp wind out of the northwest. Indeed, what she had on I did not know—some dark stuff gown that well became her—I was not looking at her gown. No doubt I was grinning like any idiot; but I did not hold her hand, for behind us walked Old Goodwin and that Rich man—that Rich man that I would have cast into the sea so short a time before. And, walking so, we came to the steep path and climbed it, and we stood beneath my pine. And before the seat against the tree stood my table that I had made large enough for four; but the seat was unchanged, and it held but two.
Old Goodwin looked upon the seat, and he said no word, but he smiled his quiet smile and betook him to my shed. I bethought me of the other guest that I had asked.
“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I said. “Will she not come?” But I did but jest, for I had had no idea that she would come.
And that Rich man spoke, and what he said was a surprise to me. “Mrs. Goodwin wished me to say,” said he, “that she feared to catch cold as the wind is somewhat biting. But she thanks you for asking her.”
Then I looked at Eve, and she seemed surprised, too. But Old Goodwin had found his box that he had sat upon before, and he brought it out and set it by the table.
“I will sit here,” he said. “I have an affection for this box. It tilts nicely.”
And that other stared a moment. “I wonder,” he said at last, “if there is another—no, no.” For I had started for the shed. “Let me get it.”