“We have had a pleasant clambake, have we not? Such a feast as I never had.” I made no reply. “Fisherman,” she said then, “you should make some pretty speech.” “Is it for a fisherman,” I asked, “to make pretty speeches? He must catch his fish and dig his clams.” “You have changed so, Adam,” she said, reproaching. “It is not I have changed,” I answered. Still I would not look at her, but she was silent, and I knew her smile was gone. “And is there nothing more?” she asked. “Is it ended?” “It is ended,” I said. “Even the stones grow cold.” “Adam,” she cried, “why will you be so contrary? It is not ended. I will not have it so.” “The Rich may have what they will,” I said, “nearly, but not quite. I was not made for a plaything for the Rich.” “You are bitter, and you are not fair,” she said softly. “It is not like you, Adam. There is something more. Why will you make it hard?” “I will not make it hard,” I answered. “There is nothing else. What has a fisherman to say to a Daughter of the Rich, or she to him? So, for that other matter, Miss Goodwin, I absolve you from an answer.” “Adam,” she cried, “you make me angry. I have a mind to go home.” “Shall I see you on your way?” I asked. “I will not have it so,” she said, and stood and stamped her foot. I knew well how she must look, in that pretty rage. “And you forgot, Adam.” “What?” I asked. “I would not fail in duty.” “My name,” she said. “I told you it was Eve.” “Are you not Miss Goodwin?” “Adam,” she said firmly, “I said Eve.” “Well, Eve, have you not done with me?” I sighed and would not look at her, though she stood before me. “No, I have not,” she said. “I should laugh if I were not so angry. Look at me.” I stood and looked down at her, an instant but no more. I could not, for I should have choked. “Eve, Eve,” I cried, “have you no mercy? Must the Rich destroy the playthings that they weary of?” “Adam,” she said, “you have a duty yet. Do not shirk it. A fisherman must not shirk his duty.” “I am but a drowned fisherman,” I replied. “But what a drowned man may do, I will do.” “You promised to be my good friend,” she said. “So come back with me along the shore.” So we went down the steep path and side by side along the shore, where the water lapped high. And we came to our bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun, and there Eve sat her down. “Sit beside me, Adam.” And down I sat, as wretched as man was ever, and I looked into the water that covered my clam beds. I doubted I should have heart to dig in those beds again. “Adam,” said Eve, and her voice was not steady, “I have considered, and”-- “Eve,” I cried, “can you not spare me that? If you feel any friendship for me, spare me that. I am blind enough, but I can see”-- “Oh, you are the blindest man that ever was.” And she slipped her hand within my arm, and drew it back again and began to cry softly. And at that I sprang to my feet, and my heart thumped like a hammer, till I thought it would burst my ribs.