about the world," said Elim Meikeljohn, pagan. "He would leave his sheep and byre, he'd drop his duty and desert his old, and follow. I'm lost," he decided, in a last perishing flicker of early teaching; and then he smiled inexplicably at the wrath to come.
Rosemary Roselle grew more serious.
"But that's not a compliment at all," she discovered; "it's more, and it makes me uncomfortable. Please stop!"
"About the world," echoed Elim, "and everything else forgotten."
"Please," she repeated, holding up a prohibitory palm.
"Rose petals," he said, regarding it.
His madness increased. She withdrew her hand and gazed at him with a small frown. She was sitting upright, propped on her arms. Her mouth, with its slightly full under lip, was elevated, and an outrageous desire possessed him. His countenance slowly turned hotly red, and slowly a faint tide of color stained Rosemary Roselle's cheeks. She looked away; Elim looked away. He proceeded aft and learned that Bramant's Wharf lay only a few miles ahead.
The old man cursed the wind in his stringent tones. Elim hadn't noticed anything reprehensible in the wind. It appeared that for a considerable time there hadn't been any. A capful was stirring now, and humanity—ever discontented—silently cursed that.
"We're nearly there," he said, returning to Rosemary Roselle.
He was unable to gather any intelligence from her expression.
