ite sure!) actually left that house of mystery
carrying a yellow earthen pitcher of milk, a crusty loaf of new bread,
a great slice of sage cheese and a blueberry pie, followed by
Margarita and the Danish hound, Margarita prattling of Broadway, the
dog licking her hand, Roger, I have no sort of doubt, intent on
conveying the food in good order to its destination!

They sat on the rocks, warm yet with the September sun, and ate with a
healthy relish, while the first pale stars came out and the incoming
tide lapped the smooth beach. I have been assured that they never in
the conversation that followed mentioned the island--though it was not
then an island, to be sure--that they were sitting upon, nor the
extraordinary events which had happened there and had brought them to
it. And I believe it. I also believe, and do not need to be assured,
that they talked little of anything. They never did. Again and again I
have imparted to Roger some or other of Margarita's amazing
conversations with me and he has listened to them with the grave
interest of a stranger and even questioned me indolently as to my
theory of that stage of her development. I must add that he has never
seemed surprised at what she said and has occasionally corrected me in
my analyses and prophecies with an acuteness that has astonished me,
for he was never by way of being analytic, our Roger. When I once
remarked to Clarence King (who was devoted to her) apropos of this
silence of theirs that it was like the quiet intimacy of the animals,
he looked at me deeply for a moment, then added, "Or the angels,
maybe?" which, like most of King's remarks, bears thinking of, dear
fellow. I never heard him in my life talk so brilliantly as he did one
afternoon stretched on the sand by Margarita, while she fed him wild
strawberries from her lap and embroidered the most beautiful butterfly
on the lapel of his old velveteen jacket, and Roger tried to ride in
on the breakers like the South Sea Islanders.

From time to time Clarence would turn one of those luminous sentences
of his and kiss the stained finger tips that fed him (I never did that
in my life) and from time to time Roger's splendid tanned body would
rise between us and the sun, triumphant on his board or ignominiously
flat between the great combers. But he was as calm as the tide and we
knew that he would beat it in the end and "get the hang of it" as he
promised. She never turned her eyes toward him, that I co