richard's eye travelled expectantly over the tanned crowd of men in flannels and gaily attired girls which lined the platform of littlehampton station, but adeline was not to be seen. he felt somewhat disappointed, and then decided that he liked her the better for not having come to meet him. "besides," he thought, "the train being a special is not in the time-table, and she would not know when it was due."

her lodging was in a long, monotonous terrace which ran at right angles to the seashore, turning its back upon the river. noon was at hand, and the fierce rays of the unclouded sun were untempered by any breeze. the street lay hushed, for everyone was either at church or on the sands. in response to his inquiry, the landlady said that miss aked was out, and had left a message that if a gentleman called, he was to follow her to the jetty. obeying the directions given to him, richard soon found himself by the banks of the swift arun, with the jetty some distance in front, and beyond that the sea, which shimmered blindly in the heat. throngs of respectably dressed people wandered up and down, and a low, languid murmur of conversation floated out as it were from the cavities of a thousand parasols. perspiring children whose hands were chafed by gloves full of creases ran to and fro among the groups, shouting noisily, and heedless of the frequent injunction to remember what day it was. here and there nurses pushing perambulators made cool spots of whiteness in the confusion of colour. on the river boats and small yachts were continually sweeping towards the sea on the ebbing tide; now and then a crew of boys would attempt to pull a skiff against the rapid current, persevere for a few strokes, and then, amid scoffs from the bank, ignominiously allow themselves to be whirled past the jetty with the other craft.

richard had never seen a southern watering-place before, and he had fondly expected something different from llandudno, rhyl, or blackpool, something less stolid and more continental. littlehampton fell short of his anticipations. it was unpicturesque as a manufacturing town, and its summer visitors were an infestive, lower-middle class folk, garishly clothed, and unlearned in the fine art of enjoyment. the pure accent of london sounded on every side from the lips of clerks and shop-girls and their kin. richard forgot that he was himself a clerk, looking not out of place in that scene.

presently he espied a woman who seemed to belong to another sphere. she was leaning over the parapet of the jetty, and though a black and white sunshade entirely hid her head and shoulders, the simple, perfectly hung black skirt, the neatly shod foot, the small, smoothly gloved hand with thin gold circlet at wrist, sufficed to convince him that here, by some strange chance, was one of those exquisite creatures who on saturday afternoons drove past the end of raphael street on their way to hurlingham or barnes. he wondered what she did there, and tried to determine the subtleties of demeanour and costume which constituted the plain difference between herself and the other girls on the jetty. at that moment she stood erect, and turned round. why, she was quite young.... he approached her.... it was adeline.

astonishment was so clearly written on his face that she laughed as they exchanged greetings.

"you seem startled at the change in me," she said abruptly. "do you know that i positively adore clothes, though i've only just found it out. the first thing i did when i got here was to go over to brighton, and spend terrific sums at a dressmaker's. you see, there wasn't time in london. you don't despise me for it, i hope? i've plenty of money—enough to last a long, long time."

she was dazzling, and she openly rejoiced in the effect her appearance had made on richard.

"you couldn't have done better," he answered, suddenly discovering with chagrin that his own serge suit was worn and shabby.

"i'm relieved," she said; "i was afraid my friend might think me vain and extravagant." her manner of saying "my friend"—half mockery, half deference—gave richard intense satisfaction.

they walked to the end of the jetty and sat down on a stone seat.

"isn't it beautiful?" she exclaimed enthusiastically.

"what—the town, or the people, or the sea?"

"everything. i've scarcely been to the seaside before in all my life, and i think it's lovely."

"the sea would be splendid if one could see it, but it blinds one even to glance at it in this heat."

"you shall have half my sunshade." she put it over him with a protective gesture.

"no, no," he demurred.

"i say yes. why don't men carry sunshades? it's only their pride that stops them.... so you don't like the town and the people?"

"well—"

"i love to see plenty of people about. and you would, too, if you'd been fixed like me. i've never seen a real crowd. there are crushes when you go into theatres, sometimes, aren't there?"

"yes. women faint."

"but i shouldn't. i would have given anything not long ago to be in one of those crushes. now, of course, i can just please myself. when we are back in london, do you think i could persuade you to take me?"

"you might," he said, "if you asked nicely. but young ladies who wear clothes like yours don't usually patronise the pit, where the crushes are. stalls or dress circle would be more in your style. i propose we take the dress circle. you wouldn't enjoy your crush going in, but at the lyceum and some other theatres, there is quite a superior crush coming out of the stalls and dress circle."

"yes, that is better. and i shall buy more clothes. oh! i will be shockingly wasteful. if poor old uncle knew how his money was to be spent—"

a little child, chased by one still less, fell down flat in front of them, and began to cry. adeline picked it up, losing her sunshade, and kissed both children. then she took a paper of chocolates from her pocket and gave several to each child, and they ran away without saying thank you.

"have one?" she offered the bag to richard. "that's another luxury i shall indulge in—chocolates. do have just one, to keep me company," she appealed. "by the way, about dinner. i ordered dinner for both of us at my rooms, but we can improve on that. i have discovered a lovely little village a few miles away, angmering, all old cottages and no drains. let us drive there in a victoria, and picnic at a cottage. i know the exact place for us. there will be no people there to annoy you."

"but you like 'people,' so that won't do at all."

"i will do without 'people' for this day."

"and what shall we have for dinner?"

"oh! eggs and bread and butter and tea."

"tea for dinner! not very solid, is it?"

"greedy! if you have such a large appetite, eat a few more chocolates; they will take it away."

she rose, pointing to a victoria in the distance.

he looked at her without getting up, and their eyes met with smiles. then he, too, rose. he thought he had never felt so happy. an intoxicating vision of future felicities momentarily suggested itself, only to fade before the actuality of the present.

the victoria stopped at adeline's rooms. she called through the open window to lottie, who came out and received orders to dine alone, or with the landlady if she preferred.

"lottie and mrs. bishop are great friends," adeline said. "the silly girl would sooner stay in to help mrs. bishop with housework than go out on the beach with me."

"she must indeed be silly. i know which i should choose!" it seemed a remark of unutterable clumsiness—after he had said it, but adeline's faint smile showed no dissatisfaction. he reflected that he would have been better pleased had she totally ignored it.

the carriage ran smoothly along the dusty roads, now passing under trees, and now skirting poppy-clad fields whose vivid scarlet almost encroached on the highway itself. richard lay back, as he had seen men do in the park, his shoulder lightly touching adeline's. she talked incessantly, though slowly, in that low voice of hers, and her tones mingled with the measured trot of the enfeebled horse, and lulled richard to a sensuous quiescence. he slightly turned his face towards hers, and with dreamy deliberateness examined her features,—the dimple in her cheek which he had never noticed before, the curves of her ear, her teeth, her smooth black hair, the play of light in her eye; then his gaze moved to her large felt hat, set bewitchingly aslant on the small head, and then for a space he would look at the yellowish-green back of the imperturbable driver, who drove on and on, little witting that enchantment was behind him.

they consumed the eggs and bread and butter and tea which adeline had promised; and they filled their pockets with fruit. that was adeline's idea. she gave herself up to enjoyment like a child. when the sun was less strenuous they walked about the village, sitting down frequently to admire its continual picturesqueness. time sped with astonishing rapidity; richard's train went at twenty-five minutes past seven, and already, as they stood by the margin of the tiny tributary of the arun, some grandfather's clock in a neighbouring cottage clattered five. he was tempted to say nothing about the train, quietly allow himself to miss it, and go up by the first ordinary on monday morning. but soon adeline inquired about his return, and they set off to walk back to littlehampton; the carriage had been dismissed. he invented pretexts for loitering, made her sit on walls to eat apples, tried to get lost in by-paths, protested that he could not keep the pace she set; but to no purpose. they arrived at the station at exactly a quarter past seven. the platform was busy, and they strolled to the far end of it and stood by the engine.

"i wish to heaven the train didn't leave so early," he said. "i'm sure the sea air would do me a lot of good, if i could get enough of it. what a beautiful day it has been!" he sighed sentimentally.

"i never, never enjoyed myself so perfectly," she said emphatically. "suppose we beseech the engine-driver to lie still for a couple of hours?" richard's smile was inattentive.

"you are sure you haven't done too much," he said with sudden solicitude, looking at her half anxiously.

"i! not a bit. i am absolutely well again." her eyes found his and held them, and it seemed to him that mystic messages passed to and fro.

"how long do you think of staying?"

"not long. it gets rather boring, being alone. i expect i shall return on saturday."

"i was thinking i would run down again on saturday for the week-end,—take a week-end ticket," he said; "but of course, if—"

"in that case i should stay a few days longer. i couldn't allow myself to deprive you of the sea air which is doing you so much good. by next saturday i may have discovered more nice places to visit, perhaps even prettier than angmering.... but you must get in."

he would have given a great deal just then to be able to say firmly: "i have changed my mind about going. i will stay at a hotel to-night and take the first train to-morrow." but it required more decision than he possessed, and in a few moments he was waving good-bye to her from the carriage window.

there were several other people in the compartment,—a shy shop-girl and her middle-aged lover, evidently employés of the same establishment, and an artisan with his wife and a young child. richard observed them intently, and found a curious, new pleasure in all their unstudied gestures and in everything they said. but chiefly he kept a watch on the shop-girl's lover, who made it no secret that he was dwelling in the seventh heaven. richard sympathised with that man. his glance fell on him softly, benignantly. as the train passed station after station, he wondered what adeline was doing, now, and now, and now.

on the following saturday he took tea with adeline at her lodgings. the train had been late, and by the time they were ready for the evening walk without which no visitor to the seaside calls the day complete, it was close upon nine o'clock. the beach was like a fair or a north-country wake. conjurers, fire-eaters, and minstrels each drew an audience; but the principal attraction was a man and woman who wore masks and were commonly supposed to be distinguished persons to whom fate had been unkind. they had a piano in a donkey-cart, and the woman sang to the man's accompaniment. just as richard and adeline came up, "the river of years" was announced for performance.

"let us listen to this," said adeline.

they stood at the rim of the crowd. the woman had a rich contralto voice and sang with feeling, and her listeners were generous of both applause and coppers.

"i wonder who she is," adeline murmured, with a touch of melancholy,—"i wonder who she is. i love that song."

"oh, probably some broken-down concert-singer," richard said curtly, "with a drunken husband."

"but she sang beautifully. she made me feel—you know—funny.... a lovely feeling, isn't it?" she looked up at him.

"yes," he said, smiling at her.

"you're laughing."

"indeed i'm not. i know what you mean perfectly well. perhaps i had it just then, too—- a little. but the song is a bit cheap."

"i could listen to it every day, and never get tired of listening. don't you think that if a song gives anyone that—feeling, there must be some good in it?"

"of course it's far better than most; but—"

"but not equal to those classical songs you told me about—the first time i saw you, wasn't it? yes, schubert: was that the name? i mean to get those, and you must show me the best ones, and play the accompaniments, and then i shall judge for myself."

"i shall make an awful mess of the accompaniments; they're not precisely easy, you know."

"full of accidentals, are they? i sha'n't like them, then. i never do like that sort of song."

"but you will; you must."

"must i?" she almost whispered, in tones of gentle, feminine surrender. and after a second or two: "then i'll try, if it will keep you in a good temper."

they stood fronting the sea. she looked straight ahead into the darkening distance, and then turned round to him with a mock plaintive expression, and they both laughed.

"wouldn't it be better up by the river," he suggested, "where there are fewer people?"

a little to his surprise, she agreed that it was certainly rather noisy and crowded on the beach on saturday nights, and they turned their backs to the shore. the moon had risen, and shone at intervals through clouds. for a few score yards they walked in silence. then adeline said,—

"it's very dull here during the week for a poor single woman like me. i shall go home on monday."

"but think of london in this weather."

"i do think of it. i think of the parks and the restaurants and the theatres."

"the good theatres are closed now."

"well, the music-halls. i've never been in one, and if they are very naughty, then i want to go very much. besides, there are lots of theatres open. i've read all the theatrical advertisements in the 'telegraph,' and there must be plenty of things to see. you mayn't think them worth seeing, but i should enjoy any theatre."

"i believe you would," he said. "i used to be like that."

"up to now i've had no real pleasure—what i call pleasure—and i'm just going to have it. i'll settle down afterwards."

"didn't your uncle take you out much?"

"i should say he didn't. he took me to a concert once. that was all—in nearly two years. i suppose it never occurred to him that i was leading a dull life."

she made a movement with her hands, as if to put away from her all the drab dailiness of her existence in carteret street.

"you can soon recover lost time," richard said cheerfully.

his fancy was in the rosy future, vividly picturing the light-hearted gaieties, bohemian, unconventional, artistic, in which he and she should unite. he saw himself and adeline becoming dearer to each other, and still dearer, her spirit unfolding like a flower, and disclosing new beauties day by day. he saw her eyes glisten when they met his; felt the soft pressure of her hand; heard her voice waver with tenderness, expectant of his avowal. and then came his own bold declaration: "i love you, adeline," and her warm, willing lips were upon his. god! to dream of such beatitudes!

she had slightly quickened her step. the quays were silent and deserted, save for these two. presently masts rose vaguely against the sky, and they approached a large ship. richard leaned over the parapet to decipher the name on her bows. "juliane," he spelt out.

"that is norwegian or danish."

they lingered a few moments, watching the movements of dim figures on deck, listening to the musical chatter of an unknown tongue, and breathing that atmosphere of romance and adventure which foreign vessels carry with them from strange lands; then they walked on.

"hush!" exclaimed adeline, stopping, and touching richard's arm.

the sailors were singing some quaint modern strain.

"what is it?" she asked when they had finished a verse.

"it must be a norwegian folk-song. it reminds me of grieg."

another verse was sung. it began to rain,—warm, summer drops.

"you will be wet," richard said.

"never mind."

a third verse followed, and then a new air was started. it rained faster.

"come under the shelter of the wall here," richard urged, timidly taking her arm. "i think i see an archway."

"yes, yes," she murmured, with sweet acquiescence; and they stood together a long time under the archway in silence, while the norwegian sailors, heedless of weather, sang song after song.

the next morning the sky had cleared again, but there was a mist over the calm sea. they walked idly on the level sands. at first they were almost alone. the mist intensified distances; a group of little children paddling in a foot of water appeared to be miles away. slowly the mist was scattered by the sun, and the beach became populous with visitors in sunday attire. in the afternoon they drove to angmering, adeline having found no preferable haunt.

"you have no train to catch to-night," she said; "what a relief! shall you start very early to-morrow?"

"i'm not particular," he answered. "why?"

"i was thinking that lottie and i would go up by the same train as you, but perhaps you won't care to be bothered with women and their luggage."

"if you really intend to return to-morrow, i'll wire to curpet not to expect me till after lunch, and we'll go at a reasonable hour."

he left her at her lodging as the clock was striking eleven; but instead of making direct for his hotel, he turned aside to the river to have a last look at the "juliane." curiously, it began to rain, and he sheltered under the archway where he had stood with adeline on the previous night. aboard the "juliane" there was stir and bustle. he guessed that the ship was about to weigh anchor and drop down with the tide. just after midnight she slid cautiously away from the quay, to the accompaniment of hoarse calls and the rattling of chains and blocks.