"My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. . She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her.
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