Buildings
which never showed by day showed by night, and the sea flowed right
over the land judging by the moving lights of the steamers. The sight
fulfilled the same purpose as an orchestra in a London restaurant, and
silence had its setting. William Pepper observed it for some time; he
put on his spectacles to contemplate the scene.
"I've identified the big block to the left," he observed, and pointed
with his fork at a square formed by several rows of lights.
"One should infer that they can cook vegetables," he added.
"An hotel?" said Helen.
"Once a monastery," said Mr. Pepper.
Nothing more was said then, but, the day after, Mr. Pepper returned from
a midday walk, and stood silently before Helen who was reading in the
verandah.
"I've taken a room over there," he said.
"You're not going?" she exclaimed.
"On the whole--yes," he remarked. "No private cook _can_ cook
vegetables."
Knowing his dislike of questions, which she to some extent shared,
Helen asked no more. Still, an uneasy suspicion lurked in her mind that
William was hiding a wound. She flushed to think that her words, or her
husband's, or Rachel's had penetrated and stung. She was half-moved to
cry, "Stop, William; explain!" and would have returned to the subject at
luncheon if William had not shown himself inscrutable and chill, lifting
fragments of salad on the point of his fork, with the gesture of a man
pronging seaweed, detecting gravel, suspecting germs.
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