At the seashore, with Susette on the beach, hour after hour, she thought about Joe and about herself.  This thinking was long and curious.  It was confused, barely conscious at times, all mingled with the long bright waves that came rolling in from the shining sea.  The picture of her sister’s face kept rising up before her there—­of Amy in her bedroom good-humouredly talking and smiling, and teaching Ethel how to get on; of Amy with her husband, throwing swift, vigilant glances at him, kissing him, nestling in his arms.  In her thinking Ethel grew hot and cold, with jealousy, swift self-reproach and a new, alarming tenderness.  She thought of Joe, of his every look, his smile and the tones of his gruff voice; of Joe grief-stricken and half crazed, of Joe awakening, coming back.  Again with a warm rush of feelings, not unmingled with dismay, she would go over in her mind their talks and the queer, almost guilty expression that had often come in his eyes.  For Amy had always been in the room.

For this thinking, fresh fuel was given by Joe’s weekly visits here.  There was not much talk of Amy now, her name had subtly dropped away, but Ethel could feel it behind the talk.  “It would always be there!” she would cry to herself.  “Well, and why not?” she would demand.  “Why be such a jealous cat?  Would you let that hold you back?” It was all so involved, this Amy part, with Ethel’s own earlier visions of happiness and a love of her own.  Was this really love—­this queer, leaping feeling, up and down, hot and cold, uncertain, tense, unhappy, hungry, undecided?

“Oh, if I could only make up my mind!”

When with Joe, she had many moods.  In some she grew resentful toward him for forcing this upon her.  But soon she would grow repentant.  Her manner, from cool friendliness, would change in a few moments; and her eyes would grow absorbed, attentive, now to Joe and now to herself, grave, wistful, sad, and then suddenly gay—­though they only talked of little things, of Susette, the beach, the city, the coming winter, household plans, his work, half spoken aspirations.  Any one watching them in these talks might have thought she was his wife.

Again came that disturbing sense of intimate relationship to her sister who was dead.  “I’m stepping into Amy’s shoes.”  But this feeling began to be left behind.  It was back in the past; she was looking on.  One day, when Susette had bumped her head and her aunt was comforting her, suddenly in a revealing flash came the thought, “I love you, oh, so hard, my sweet!  But I want another one all my own!”

When in September she and Susette went back to Joe in the city, all this grew more intense and clear.  For he would not give her much longer now; she saw that he had made up his mind.  She felt his strength and tenderness, his hunger for her growing.  Sometimes it was frightening, the power he was gaining.  A touch of his hand and she would grow cold.  One evening when she had a headache, Joe bent over and kissed her.