There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. “Well, no,” she answered. “It has been a delightful evening for me. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. There was absolute quiet. I didn't understand then, but I do now.
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