"Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and
brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.
"The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered.
"The sun will be gone in two hours."
"Well, let it go; who cares!"
They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine
came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain
her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not
willingly face any woman except his mother.
It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun
dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and
gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque
monsters across the grass.
Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground--that is, he lay upon the
ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.
Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside
the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself
up to the storytelling pitch.
And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the
Cheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years she
had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the
Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten
it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of
muffled gold.
When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail,
misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and
upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.