His face had thinned
too. His eyes no longer bulged. They had receded well under the
pent of his brow and, in receding, taken colour from its shadow.
"I am not dull, Santa," said Farrell. "I am only content and--well,
a little bit regretful, and--well yes, again, the least bit lazy.
But what does it matter? Ylario has gone down to the beach. He will
send off word to the skipper that all this truck will be ready on the
foreshore by five-thirty to-morrow. In good weather he never weighs
before seven, and the weather is settled."
The woman, at one word of his, had turned and set down her glasses.
"Regretful?" She echoed it as a question, and followed it up with a
question. "At what are you staring so hard?"
He lifted his eyes and met hers very steadily, earnestly. "At your
shape, Santa," was his answer. "When your back is turned, I am
always looking at you so."
"Regretfully?" she asked, mocking.
"As for the regret, you know what it is and must be. How can a man
feel it different, when we leave this place to-morrow? Don't women
feel that way towards places where they have been happy?"
She picked up the glasses again and set them with her gaze seaward
before answering.
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