One of the men had a white shirt front, soft, and now soaked with rain
into the bargain, and all bagging down; and in that wet shirt front a
diamond clasp. Long, pointed shoes he wore, too, that looked somewhat
affected. I gave him good-day. It was Mack, the trader; I knew him
because he was from the store where I used to get my bread. He had asked
me to look in at the house any time, but I had not been there yet.
“Aha, it's you, is it?” said Mack at sight of me. “We were going up to
the mill, but had to turn back. Ever see such weather--what? And when
are you coming up to see us at Sirilund, Lieutenant?”
He introduced the little black-bearded man who was with him; a doctor,
staying down near the church.
The girl lifted her veil the least little bit, to her nose, and started
talking to Æsop in a whisper. I noticed her jacket; I could see from
the lining and the buttonholes that it had been dyed. Mack introduced me
to her as well; his daughter, Edwarda.
Edwarda gave me one glance through her veil, and went on whispering to
the dog, and reading on its collar:
“So you're called Æsop, are you? Doctor, who was Æsop? All I can
remember is that he wrote fables. Wasn't he a Phrygian? I can't
remember.”
A child, a schoolgirl. I looked at her--she was tall, but with no figure
to speak of, about fifteen or sixteen, with long, dark hands and no
gloves. Like as not she had looked up Æsop in the dictionary that
afternoon, to have it ready.
Mack asked me what sport I was having. What did I shoot mostly? I could
have one of his boats at any time if I wanted--only let him know. The
Doctor said nothing at all. When they went off again, I noticed that the
Doctor limped a little, and walked with a stick.
I walked home as empty in mind as before, humming all indifferently.
That meeting in the boathouse had made no difference either way to me;
the one thing I remembered best of all was Mack's wet shirt front, with
a diamond clasp--the diamond all wet, too, and no great brilliance about
it, either.