In the streets went on a monotonous, unexciting, sluggish, clattering carting of sand. Here on the water life actually acquired wings, and was swift, bird-like, and diversified. And such as the street was Poldik, and such as the water was Francis. With Poldik, before a thought got clothed in words, no brief interval of time was needed. With Francis a word was like a look. He could speak without let or stay, and never was in want of a topic. What a perfect convulsion of nature took ace before Poldik managed to say that he loved her. Francis had said it to her at once without any embarrassment; he said it every moment, and repeated it continually. Compliments, which almost gave Poldik the cramp to pronounce, Francis turned off as easily as a tennis ball. What a piece of work there was before Poldik had said “He hoped they would make a pair.” And lo! here the jolly waterman had said it the first time she sat in his boat, “What a pity Poldik anticipated me, else we might have made a pair.”
And Francis repeated it to-day when Malka stepped into the skiff.
“But, of course, now we shall not make a pair,” Malka answered, meaning, however, by this that she and Poldik would not make a pair.
“Is it possible?” looked Francis.
And thereupon Malka recounted what had taken place in the alehouse.
