impatiently, disliking the sound of his own voice--hers fitted with the
dream. When had he been this before?

The Morte d'Arthur--the two with a sword between.

He sank deeper, deeper, into the glow of that imagined firelight--the flame
was cooler than water to walk through--that time he had almost taken a
turning shadow into his hand. The sword between--only here there was no
sword. If he reached out his hand he knew just how the hand that he touched
would feel, cool and firm, like that flame. Cool and silent.

There must have been something, somewhere, to make him remember....

He remembered.

A minute later Oliver had splashed up to them, shouting "A rescue! A
rescue! Guests Drown While Host Looks On Smilingly! What's the matter, Ted,
you look as if you wanted to turn into a submarine? Got cramp?"




IX

Mrs. Crowe relaxed a little for the first tired minute of her day. Sunday
dinner was nearly over, and though, in one way, the best meal in the week
for her because all her children were sure to be at home, it was apt to be
pure purgatory on a hot day, with Sheba dawdling and grumbling and Rosalind
spilling pea-soup on her Sunday dress, and Aunt Elsie's deafness increased
by the weather to the point of mild imbecility.