My cousin has an indirect habit of mind. With all general and all personal things his desperation to get at them obliquely amounts almost to a passion; he could no more go straight to a crisis than a cat could to a stranger. He came off at a tangent now as he was sitting forward and scrutinising her first very creditable efforts to draw. "I just wonder," he said, "exactly what it was you did come for."
She smiled at him over a little jet of smoke. "Why, this," she said.
"And hairdressing?"
"And dressing."
She smiled again after a momentary hesitation. "And all this sort of thing," she said, as if she felt she had answered him perhaps a little below his deserts. Her gesture indicated the house and the lawn and—my cousin Melville wondered just exactly how much else.
"Am I doing it right?" asked the Sea Lady.
"Beautifully," said my cousin with a faint sigh in his voice. "What do you think of it?"
"It was worth coming for," said the Sea Lady, smiling into his eyes.
"But did you really just come———?"
She filled in his gap. "To see what life was like on land here?. . . Isn't that enough?"
Melville's cigarette had failed to light. He regarded its blighted career pensively.
"Life," he said, "isn't all—this sort of thing."
"This sort of thing?"
"Sunlight. Cigarette smoking. Talk. Looking nice."
395
