But Gerald kept to a casual note. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. "Seize this oar," vociferated the waterman. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. He had let go his name so easily as that! What was the name she had given? Ruth something; he could not remember.
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