He was sitting on the steps leading from the
veranda to the sea--was smoking a cigarette and gazing
out over the waves like a graven image, as if he
had always been posed there and always would be there,
the embodiment of repose gazing in ineffable indifference
upon the embodiment of its opposite. He made
no answer.
``I asked you why you do not like me,'' said she.
``Did you hear?''
``Yes,'' replied he.
She waited; nothing further from him. Said she:
``Well, give me one of your cigarettes.''
He rose, extended his case, then a light. He was
never remiss in those kinds of politeness. When she
was smoking, he seated himself again and dropped into
the former attitude. She eyed him, wondering how it
could be possible that he had endured the incredible
fatigues and hardships Stanley Baird had related of
him--hunting and exploring expeditions into tropics
and into frozen regions, mountain climbs, wild sea
voyages in small boats, all with no sign of being able to
stand anything, yet also with no sign of being any
more disturbed than now in this seaside laziness.
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