THE SEA AGAIN
Once more the swish of spray against the side of a
ship, the tang of salt, the lift and fall of the rail
against the sea-line on the horizon. And once
more a girl, in white from neck to heel, facing into
the wind as if she loved it, her crisp skirts flying,
her hair blown back from her forehead in damp curls.
And I am not washing down the deck. With all
the poise of white flannels and a good cigar, I am
lounging in a deck-chair, watching her. Then—
“Come here!” I say.
“I am busy.”
“You are not busy. You are disgracefully
idle.”
“Why do you want me?”
She comes closer, and looks down at me. She
likes me to sit, so she may look superior and scornful,
this being impossible when one looks up. When
she has approached—
“Just to show that I can order you about.”
“I shall go back!”—with raised
chin. How I remember that raised chin, and how
(whisper it) I used to fear it!
“You cannot. I am holding the edge of
your skirt.”
“Ralph! And all the other passengers looking!”
“Then sit down—and, before you do,
tuck that rug under my feet, will you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Under my feet!”
She does it, under protest, whereon I release her
skirts. She is sulky, quite distinctly sulky.
I slide my hand under the rug into her lap.
She ignores it.
“Now,” I say calmly, “we are even.
And you might as well hold my hand. Every one
thinks you are.”
She brings her hands hastily from under her rug and
puts them over her head. “I don’t
know what has got into you,” she says coldly.
“And why are we even?”
“For the day you told me the deck was not clean.”
“It wasn’t clean.”
“I think I am going to kiss you.”
“Ralph!”
“It is coming on. About the time that
the bishop gets here, I shall lean over and—”
She eyes me, and sees determination in my face.
She changes color.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I!”
She rises hastily, and stands looking down at me.
I am quite sure at that moment that she detests me,
and I rather like it. There are always times
when we detest the people we love.
“If you are going to be arbitrary just because
you can—”
“Yes?”
“Marsh and the rest are in the smoking room.
Their sitting-room is empty.”
Quite calmly, as if we are going below for a clean
handkerchief or a veil or a cigarette, we stroll down
the great staircase of the liner to the Turners’
sitting-room, and close the door.
And—I kiss her.
