The mere fine pulse of passion in it, the suggestion as of a creature consciously floating and shining in a warm summer sea, some element of dazzling sapphire and silver, a creature cradled upon depths, buoyant among dangers, in which fear or folly, or sinking otherwise than in play, was impossible—­something of all this might have been making once more present to him, with his discreet, his half shy assent to it, her probable enjoyment of a rapture that he, in his day, had presumably convinced no great number of persons either of his giving or of his receiving.  He sat awhile as if he knew himself hushed, almost admonished, and not for the first time; yet it was an effect that might have brought before him rather what she had gained than what he had missed.

Besides, who but himself really knew what he, after all, hadn’t, or even had, gained?  The beauty of her condition was keeping him, at any rate, as he might feel, in sight of the sea, where, though his personal dips were over, the whole thing could shine at him, and the air and the plash and the play become for him too a sensation.  That couldn’t be fixed upon him as missing; since if it wasn’t personally floating, if it wasn’t even sitting in the sand, it could yet pass very well for breathing the bliss, in a communicated irresistible way—­for tasting the balm.  It could pass, further, for knowing—­for knowing that without him nothing might have been:  which would have been missing least of all.

“I guess I’ve never been jealous,” he finally remarked.  And it said more to her, he had occasion next to perceive, than he was intending; for it made her, as by the pressure of a spring, give him a look that seemed to tell of things she couldn’t speak.

But she at last tried for one of them.  “Oh, it’s you, father, who are what I call beyond everything.  Nothing can pull you down.”

He returned the look as with the sociability of their easy communion, though inevitably throwing in this time a shade of solemnity.  He might have been seeing things to say, and others, whether of a type presumptuous or not, doubtless better kept back.  So he settled on the merely obvious.  “Well then, we make a pair.  We’re all right.”

“Oh, we’re all right!” A declaration launched not only with all her discriminating emphasis, but confirmed by her rising with decision and standing there as if the object of their small excursion required accordingly no further pursuit.  At this juncture, however—­with the act of their crossing the bar, to get, as might be, into port—­there occurred the only approach to a betrayal of their having had to beat against the wind.  Her father kept his place, and it was as if she had got over first and were pausing for her consort to follow.  If they were all right; they were all right; yet he seemed to hesitate and wait for some word beyond.  His eyes met her own, suggestively, and it was only after she had contented herself with simply smiling at him,