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"
I
was
afraid
it
hit
you
.
"
His
voice
was
slow
and
shy
;
he
had
one
of
the
saddest
faces
Rosemary
had
ever
seen
,
the
high
cheekbones
of
an
Indian
,
a
long
upper
lip
,
and
enormous
deep
-
set
dark
golden
eyes
.
He
had
spoken
out
of
the
side
of
his
mouth
,
as
if
he
hoped
his
words
would
reach
Mrs
.
McKisco
by
a
circuitous
and
unobtrusive
route
;
in
a
minute
he
had
shoved
off
into
the
water
and
his
long
body
lay
motionless
toward
shore
.
Rosemary
and
Mrs
.
McKisco
watched
him
.
When
he
had
exhausted
his
momentum
he
abruptly
bent
double
,
his
thin
thighs
rose
above
the
surface
,
and
he
disappeared
totally
,
leaving
scarcely
a
fleck
of
foam
behind
.
"
He
’
s
a
good
swimmer
,
"
Rosemary
said
.
Mrs
.
McKisco
’
s
answer
came
with
surprising
violence
.
"
Well
,
he
’
s
a
rotten
musician
.
"
She
turned
to
her
husband
,
who
after
two
unsuccessful
attempts
had
managed
to
climb
on
the
raft
,
and
having
attained
his
balance
was
trying
to
make
some
kind
of
compensatory
flourish
,
achieving
only
an
extra
stagger
.
"
I
was
just
saying
that
Abe
North
may
be
a
good
swimmer
but
he
’
s
a
rotten
musician
.
"
"
Yes
,
"
agreed
McKisco
,
grudgingly
.
Obviously
he
had
created
his
wife
’
s
world
,
and
allowed
her
few
liberties
in
it
.
"
Antheil
’
s
my
man
.
"
Mrs
.
McKisco
turned
challengingly
to
Rosemary
,
"
Anthiel
and
Joyce
.
I
don
’
t
suppose
you
ever
hear
much
about
those
sort
of
people
in
Hollywood
,
but
my
husband
wrote
the
first
criticism
of
Ulysses
that
ever
appeared
in
America
.
"
"
I
wish
I
had
a
cigarette
,
"
said
McKisco
calmly
.
"
That
’
s
more
important
to
me
just
now
.
"
"
He
’
s
got
insides
—
don
’
t
you
think
so
,
Albert
?
"
