and a little apart, he was gazing into the blankness with the steady eyes of those who look much at the sea. His slight figure in the closely-fitting jersey made only a patch of deeper gray in the fog; his profile was cut clear and dark against the empty spaces. He had not been robbed of all the grace that was meant to be his, as Joan began to realize, gazing at the brave squaring of his shoulders and the splendid lift of his chin. She could not take her eyes from his face.
. . . And felt the fog on his cheek,
And heard the great bell speak
To the groping ships off-shore. . . .
It sang in her ears. "He who shall never—" She held out her arms suddenly.
"Garth! O Garth!" she cried.
He turned quickly.
"What is it?" And then: "Joan! What's the matter? You look so queer! You're not going to—"
Joan reached out for the book, where it had fallen into a crevice.
"What was the other one that you wanted me to read?" she asked gently.
