He saw that it need not, and looked forward appreciatively to a scene in which Meta would not come off second. Above them the long curve of the boardwalk was empty, with, behind it, the suave ornamental roofs of the cottages. A wind quartering from the shore had smoothed the ocean into the semblance of a limitless and placid lake. Minute waves ruffled along the beach with a continuous whispering, and the vault of the west, from which the sun had just withdrawn, was filled with light the color of sauterne wine. It was inconceivable to August Turnbull that soon Emmy would be gone out of his life. He shook his thick shoulders as if by a gesture to unburden himself of her unpleasant responsibility. He smiled slightly at the memory of how he had come to fear her. It had been the result of the strain he was under; once more the vision of mountainous bread and Emmy returned. The devil was in the woman! “What are you smiling at?” Meta asked. “Perhaps it was because my luck, as well, has changed,” he admitted. She came close up to him, quivering with emotion. “I want everything!” she cried in a vibrant hunger; “everything! Do you understand? Are you willing? I'm starved as much as that woman up in her bed. Can you give me all the gayety, all the silks and emeralds there are in the world?” He patted her shoulder. “You'll look like a Christmas tree. When this damned war is over we will go to Europe, to Berlin and Munich. They have the finest streets and theaters and cafés in the world. There things are run by men for men. The food is the best of all--no French fripperies, but solid rare cuts. Drinking is an art----” “What is that out in the water?” she idly demanded. He gazed impatiently over the unscored tide and saw a dark infinitesimal blot. “I have been watching it for a long while,” she continued. “It's coming closer, I think.” He again took up his planning. “We'll stay two or three years; till things get on their feet here. Turn the bakery into a company. No work, nothing but parties.” “Do look!” she repeated. “It's coming in--a little boat. I suppose it is empty.” The blot was now near enough for him to distinguish its outline. As Meta said, no one was visible. It was drifting. Against his wish his gaze fastened on the approaching boat. It hesitated, appeared to swing away, and then resumed the progress inshore. “I believe it will float into that cut in the beach below,” he told her. His attention was divided between the craft and the image of all the pleasures he would introduce to Meta--Turnbull. It was a lucky circumstance that he had plenty of money, for he realized that she would not marry a poor man. This was not only natural but commendable. Poor men were fools, too weak for success; only the strong ate white bread and had fine women, only the masterful conquered circumstance. “Come,” she said, catching his hand; “it's almost here.”