Jim glanced up from the book and, seeing Annie, pushed it into the hand of a man standing next to him. She saw the name, Rupert Brooke, on the cover. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. They went out the door and on to the beach. No one seemed to notice their leaving; the people to whom St. Vincent had been reading stood together apathetically, as though no one had told them the entertainment was over.

Lights from other beach houses faintly illuminated the wide stretch of sand. The beach dropped off suddenly into darkness where the slow somber fall of waves followed one another like an unknown word repeated over and over. A line of whiteness gleamed against the dark horizon. “Reef,” said Jim softly. They walked by the water’s edge, which was made visible by a line of silver luminescence.

Jim stooped suddenly and picked up a handful of tiny silver fish, held them up for her to see, then flung them into the waves.

“They come to the sand to breed, and die, thousands, millions of them. It drives me mad. It’s why I won’t get a place out here.” Then, in a paroxysm of stooping and straightening up, he flung handfuls of the little fish into the sea. As she watched his hectic efforts, she was overcome by hilarity. He could command cars and women and dogs and sailors, he could produce parties and amusement parks, yet was helplessly, furiously opposing himself to the dumb fate of these bits of tide-driven creatures.

He shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t laugh,” he shouted. But she only laughed louder and shook herself free of his grip. Then, leaning toward him, she caught a glimpse of his contorted face. He is sick from drinking, she thought, sick of all the awful fun, and her laughter died.

They walked in silence to the last house. A few yards beyond it they found a sloping bank of sand upon which they sat. Then, snapping his fingers and rubbing his hands, as though words alone were not enough to convey his feeling, he talked about a getaway.