There was a pause, a silent eager search for topics. Apropos of the Niphetos roses on the table they talked of flowers and Miss Glendower ventured: "You have your anemones too! How beautiful they must be amidst the rocks!"
And the Sea Lady said they were very pretty—especially the cultivated sorts. . . .
"And the fishes," said Mrs. Bunting. "How wonderful it must be to see the fishes!"
"Some of them," volunteered the Sea Lady, "will come and feed out of one's hand."
Mrs. Bunting made a little coo of approval. She was reminded of chrysanthemum shows and the outside of the Royal Academy exhibition and she was one of those people to whom only the familiar is really satisfying. She had a momentary vision of the abyss as a sort of diverticulum of Piccadilly and the Temple, a place unexpectedly rational and comfortable. There was a kink for a time about a little matter of illumination, but it recurred to Mrs. Bunting only long after. The Sea Lady had turned from Miss Glendower's interrogative gravity of expression to the sunlight.
"The sunlight seems so golden here," said the Sea Lady. "Is it always golden?"
"You have that beautiful greeny-blue shimmer I suppose," said Miss Glendower, "that one catches sometimes ever so faintly in aquaria———"
"One lives deeper than that," said the Sea Lady. "Everything is phosphorescent, you know, a mile or so down, and it's like—I hardly know. As towns look at night—only brighter. Like piers and things like that."
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