much more solemn than the Virginia men—I mean your face is."
"I suppose I've had a solemn sort of existence," he agreed. "Life's an awful serious thing where I was born. The days are not long enough, life's too short, to get your work done. It's a stony pasture," he admitted. He described the Meikeljohn farm land, sloping steeply to swift rocky streams, the bare existence of the sheep, the bitter winters. He touched briefly on Hester and his marriage.
"It's no wonder," she pronounced, "that you have shadows in your eyes. You can't imagine," she continued, "how wonderful everything was in Richmond, before I simply can't talk about it now. I suppose we are ruined, but there isn't a man or woman who wouldn't do the same thing all over again. I'm almost glad that father isn't—isn't here; misery of any kind made him so wretched . . . perfect memories." She closed her eyes.
Her under lip, he saw, projected slightly, her chin was fine but stubborn. These details renewed his delight; they lent a warm humanity to her charm.
"Any one would know," she said, regarding him, "that you are absolutely trustworthy. It's a nice quality now, but I don't think I would have noticed it even a month ago. You can see that I have grown frightfully old in the littlest while. Yes, you are comfortable to be with, and I suspect that counts for a great deal. It's quite sad, too, to grow old. Oh, look, we've changed! Where do you suppose he is going? This can't nearly be Bramant's."
The mainsail had been hauled in, and the course of the sloop changed, quartering in toward the shore.
