With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly at the boat's side. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Morningside Park had been passive and defective; all this rushed about and was active, but it was still defective.
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