She was too late. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “Yes, mostly. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Sebastian's arms were about her, his fists pumping her stomach as she coughed forth saltwater from her belly and lungs. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. She let out a delighted laugh.
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