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She smiled as she imagined a conversation between herself and some
strong, brown, wild Neapolitan, she questioning and he replying. How
he would misunderstand her! He would probably think her mad. And yet
sometimes the men of the sea in their roughness are imaginative. They
are superstitious. But a man--no, she could not question a man. Her
mind went to the boy diver, Ruffo. She had often thought about Ruffo
during the last three days. She had expected to see him again. He had
said nothing about returning to the islet, but she had felt sure he
would return, if only in the hope of being given some more cigarettes.
Boys in his position, she knew well, do not get a present of Khali
Targa cigarettes every day of the week. How happy he had looked when
he was smoking them! She remembered exactly the expression of his
brown face now, as she sat watching the empty, moonlit sea. It was not
greedy. It was voluptuous. She remembered seeing somewhere a picture
of some Sultan of the East reclining on a divan and smoking a chibouk.


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