The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Michelle was in sight, Lucy could hear her voice, high in the crowd, and saw her blond head bobbing among a sea of faces. She wanted to kiss his feet. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea.
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