h to stay on, and with
a curious feeling of return to the actual world I pushed out across
the beach with Roger and Margarita, who dropped on the sand with the
great dog at their feet. I joined them quietly and we sat, hardly
speaking, for at least three long, golden hours. They drew me, a
naturally rather talkative person, into one of their deep peaceful
silences, and just because there was so much to say, we wisely left it
unsaid, and rested like the animals (or the angels, maybe?) in a rich
content.

It was then that I understood the vital principle of the Friends'
Meeting House, and realised how much of the heat and vulgarity of life
the best Quaker tradition buries under the cool, deep waves of its
invaluable Silence. To such artists in life the lack of speech is not
repression--far from it. Myself, I have never lived more generously
than in that wonderful afternoon, and the few hours that came
afterward were mere by-play.

Later Caliban brought us a picnic supper on the beach and then Roger
wrote some letters, gave me many instructions for his partner, listed
the matters to be put off for a week and those to be sent to him for
personal attention (precious few, these!) and agreed to my suggestion
that when he returned to town my mother should meet them and take
Margarita in charge for the purchases that must be made before the
year of travel he intended to take with his wife--lucky fellow, whose
lap Fate had filled with all her gifts!

He was to let me know when he would come and I was to forward his
mother's answer to the letter he had written her; most of their
intercourse of late had been of this sort, for his uncle's recent
death had opened again the vexed question of Boston residence and his
inability to comply with her unreasonable demands had strained anew
relations never very close, humanly considered. The unfortunate early
years of family restraint, the lack of all those weak and tender
intimacies, not uncommon in New England families, had borne their
legitimate fruit, and my mother's gentle passionate heart froze at the
mere thought of Madam Bradley's icy reserve, while to me, I own, she
was never more than an unpleasant abstraction.

And then the time came and Caliban pulled the boat across and I
pressed Margarita's hand and stood up to go. Roger took both my hands
and wrung them.

"I couldn't speak about the ring, Jerry," he said, quickly and very
low, "it's no use trying. But you understand?"