Now
he could distinguish people on the upper deck, a moving crowd, and
sailors busy with the ropes, now a fluttering speck of white near the
wheel-house. There was no one besides him on the landing-stage, the
moving white speck could only be meant for him, and no one would wave
to him but her. He pulled out his handkerchief and answered her
greeting, and in doing so he noticed that his handkerchief was not a
white one; he had been using coloured ones for years for the sake of
economy.
The steamer whistled, signalled, the engines stopped, she came
alongside, and now he recognised her. Their eyes met in greeting; the
distance was still too great for words. Now he could see her being
pushed slowly by the crowd across the little bridge. It was she, and
yet it wasn't.
Ten years stretched between her and the picture of her which he had
had in his mind. Fashion had changed, the cut of the clothes was
different. Ten years ago her delicate face with its olive complexion
was framed by the cap which was then worn, and which left the forehead
free; now her forehead was hidden by a wicked imitation of a bowler
hat. Ten years ago the beautiful lines of her figure were clearly
definable under the artistic draperies of her cloak which playfully
now hid, now emphasised the curve of her shoulders and the movement of
her arms; now her figure was completely disguised by a long driving
coat which followed the lines of her dress but completely concealed
her figure.
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