The boat was underway. It pushed slowly and silently from the pier, giving the illusion that it was the pier and the mainland that moved off, while they remained stationary. Presently the engines started up more vigorously and a steady but not-­unpleasant throb began to make itself felt throughout the length of the steamer.

“What do you think,” he said. “I found that old rubber-­lined bag we used to carry diapers in. Remember? The canvas one? Thought it might come in handy for wet bathing suits.”

“Good idea.”

He leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “Are you glad to see me?”

“Are you me?”

“Of course! If you knew how I felt, back there, when you didn’t get off with the others.”

“Yes; you said.”

He released her hand. “What’s the idea, Ethel?”

“What’s what idea?”

“Oh Lord.”

The fact that she didn’t protest made him know he was right. Something was wrong. He sat back and looked at her. She wore a smart plain brown suit, a close-­fitting brown hat like a beret, and alligator shoes. Her legs were sleek and attractive in what were probably her only nylons. She did not at all appear to be the mother of two boys, and herself over thirty; but her hazel eyes looked coldly past him and her face was set in an uninviting mask which made her seem, for the moment, far older. She cleared her throat.

“Okay. Tell me, Ethel.”

“Hm?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why, nothing.”

“I asked what is the matter?”

She opened her bag and drew out matches and a pack of cigarettes; but after several tries in the blowing wind, she said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to light it for me, if you will.” Her Thank you, then, was as clipped and polite as if they had just met for the first time.

An aproned boy came around shouting that the cafeteria below decks was open for business. They were not due to arrive at Dune House till seven-­thirty; probably later, since it was now nearly five o’clock.

“I’ll go down and get some sandwiches,” he said. “What would you like?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“We ought to eat something. It’ll be hours before dinner. Ham? Cheese?”

“I don’t care, anything.”

Standing in line in the corridor below he thought of that habit of hers, the nervous slight clearing-­of-­the-­throat. Ten years of it had taught him what it meant: an “issue” was brewing. It was so characteristic that Ethel herself was unconscious of it, though he had often pointed it out to her. He had ceased doing that, however; there was no sense in giving up a good card; angry as it made him, it was a sign useful to know. His nerves had grown so accustomed to it that when he heard the sound he automatically asked himself, Now what?