Night before last he had danced--and he had drunk much wine, and had made impulsive love to a girl he had never seen in his life until just before he had held her in his arms as they went swaying and gliding and dipping together across the polished floor, carefree as the gulls outside on the sand.
Night before last he had driven home--but he winced there, and pulled his thoughts back from that drive.
Here were no girls to listen to foolish speeches; no wine, no music, no boom of breakers, no gulls.

There never would be any.

He was as far from all that as though he had taken flight to the moon.

There was no sound save the whispering rush of the wind that blew over the bare mountain top.

He was above the pines and he could only faintly hear the murmur of their branches.