207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. ’ She smiled on the last words, adding, ‘Oh, I don’t blame you for trying. ” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. " "Is he alive!" vociferated Trenchard.
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