He had a bigger room, but
he had given it to his father and mother, who had come to Newport
with him. They were a stodgy old couple enough now, and snoring
idyllically in duet after a life of storms and tears and discontents
in spite of wealth.
Jim's room was big for a yacht, but the yacht was narrow, built for
speed. Thirty-six miles an hour its turbines could shoot it through
the sea. It had to be narrow. We can't have everything--especially
on yachts.
Jim was barefoot, standing in his pajamas at a port-hole and trying
to see the Noxon home, imagining Charity there. He was denied her
presence and was as miserable as any waif in a poor farm attic.
Money seemed to make no visible difference in his despair.
If he thought of Kedzie at all, he dismissed her as a trifling
memory. He wanted Charity, who did not want him. Charity had
Cheever, who did not want her. Kedzie had Gilfoyle, and did not want
him. It looked as if the old jingle ought to be changed from "Finders
keepers, losers weepers" to "Losers keepers, finders weepers."
The day after Jim Dyckman pulled Kedzie out of the water he made
a desperate effort to convince himself that he could be happy
without the forbidden Charity Coe.
He breakfasted and played tennis, then swam at Bailey's Beach.
Beauties of every type and every conscience were there--pale, slim
ash blondes with legs like banister-spindles, and swarthy, slender
brunettes of the same Sheraton furniture.
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