they had traveled for fully twenty minutes in silence; to teddy it had seemed as many hours. the patches of waste-land with hoardings, advertising chewing-gums and new york plays, were growing less frequent. a sea-look was softening the blueness of the sky. the greenness by the roadside remained unmarred for longer and longer stretches. they skirted a little bay, where power-boats lay tethered to buoys and a white-winged yacht was spreading sail. they panted through a town of scattered wooden houses, cool with lawns and shadowy with trees. then they came to a sandy turf-land, across which a horseman distantly galloped, leaping ditches and hurdles.

he paid scant attention to his changing surroundings. he kept gazing at the girl at his side. he feared to raise his eyes from her for a second, lest she should drift away like thistledown.

was she asleep or pretending? why should she be asleep, when they had so much to say and she had been up for barely three hours? her ungloved hand screened her eyes. he suspected that she was spying on him through her fingers. did it amuse her to torment him with silence? she had done that with variations from the moment of their meeting at glastonbury. he couldn’t understand her motive in trying to make him wretched. his impulse, if he liked people, was to make them glad. he became ingenious in unearthing reasons for her conduct. perhaps she was getting ready to confess the thing for which she had to ask his forgiveness. perhaps she was offended by his request that she should remove her glove. but she hadn’t seemed offended at the time of asking. and, if she were, how trivial! she need only have refused him. she’d given him far graver causes for offense.

he had reached this point in his despair, when suddenly she uncovered her face and sat up vivaciously.

“smell the sea! cheer up. we’re nearly there.”

darting out her hand, she patted his knee, laughing gayly at her familiarity.

“you are restful you don’t expect me to chatter all the time. people need to be very good friends to be able to sit silent. i know men who’d be quite snappy if i—— but you’re different.”

she spoke caressingly, giving him credit for a delicacy which he did not merit. he felt cheap in the accepting of it he wasn’t at all convinced of her sincerity. he had the uncomfortable sense that she was aware that he wasn’t convinced of it.

“poor you! you do look squashed. one would think you weren’t enjoying yourself. was it really only business that brought you to america?”

he smiled crookedly, making a lame effort to clamber back to her level of high spirits. “didn’t you arrange that we were going only to be sensible?”

she clasped her hands and gazed at him wistfully. “but we needn’t be sensible quite always; it wouldn’t be fun. besides, if it was just business that brought you over, i ought to know, because——”

“because,” he laughed, “if it was just business, then it wasn’t you that brought me. and, if it wasn’t you, i’ll be going back directly. if it was just business, the only way you could make me stop longer would be by being more lavish with your sweetness. you’ve not changed. desire; you’re still the dear, imperious princess, always kindest at the moment of parting.‘’

“now you’re drizzling.”

“i’m not. but you push me over precipices for the sheer joy of making me thank you when you pull me back to safety. i’m most happy to thank you, little desire; but i’d be ever so much obliged if you wouldn’t try such risky experiments. you see, you know you’re going to rescue me, but i’m never certain.”

she drooped towards him fluttering with merriment “oh, youl what a lot you know!”

with a quick transition of mood, she sat erect and became severely solemn. “i shan’t be nice all day unless you tell me. but if you do tell me——” the blank was wisely left for his imagination to fill in with eloquent promises. then, putting all her charm into the question, “why did you come?”

he looked away, ashamed that she should see his unshared emotion. “you know already.”

“but i’d rather hear it from your lips. it isn’t half as exciting to have to take things for granted.”

“if you must have it, i came because of you.”

“and not one scrap because of business?”

“not one scrap because of business. business was my excuse to my people. i had to tell them something.”

he was staring at her now. his soul stood beckoning in the windows of his eyes, watching for an answering signal.

it was her turn to glance away. she had wakened something which both thrilled and frightened her. she took refuge in disappointment.

“then you didn’t mention me to them. my father doesn’t know. i wonder why you didn’t mention me. was it because they—all those old-fashioned people—wouldn’t think me good enough?—no. no. don’t touch me. perhaps, after all, it’s better to be sensible. let’s talk of something else.”

“we’ve got to finish this now that you’ve started it.” his face was stern and he spoke determinedly. “i’d have passed over everything, for your sake, princess-gone on pretending to take things for granted. but-d’you think you’re fair to me? you said, ‘come to america if you really care.’ i thought that meant that you’d begun to care.-i hope it does.”

she crossed her feet and resigned herself to the danger she had courted. “you’re spoiling a most glorious day; but i suppose it’s best to get things off one’s chest.” then, in a composed, cool little voice, “well?”

he surprised himself by a touch of anger. it came and was gone like a flicker of lightning.

“i’ve obeyed you,” he said slowly; “i’ve come. i’ve done everything decent that i could think of to keep you reminded of me. since we said ’good-by,’ i’ve known nothing but purgatory. even happy things haven’t been happy, because you weren’t there to share. that’s the way i feel about you, desire: whatever i am or can be must be for you. but you—— from the moment you sailed out of liverpool, you dropped me. you didn’t answer my letters. you went out of new york the day i landed, leaving no message. when we met last night for five minutes, you were with another man. this morning for about half-an-hour you did seem glad, but since then——”

he bit his lips and watched her. outwardly she seemed utterly unmoved. “shall i go on?”

“just as you like.”

his words came with a rush. “this means too much to me; it’s all or nothing. if it means nothing to you, say so. i’m not playing. i can go away now—there’s time; soon you’ll have become too much a part of me.—when you’ve forced me up to the point of being frank, you say, ’let’s talk of something else.’ can’t you understand that you’re becoming my religion—that i do everything thinking, ’this’ll make her happy,’ and dream about you day and night?”

she sat beside him motionless. he had expected her either to surrender or to show resentment. she made no attempt to alter her position; their shoulders were still touching.

at last, when he had come to the breaking-point, she lifted her grave gray eyes. “you’re foolish,” she said quietly. “of course i’m glad of you. but you’ll spoil everything by being in such a hurry. you don’t know what kind of a girl i am. we’ve not been together twenty-four hours all told, and yet that’s been long enough to teach me that we’re totally unlike. i’m temperamental—-one of those girls who alter with the fashions. you’re one of the people who never change. you’re the same nice boy i used to play with, and fancy that—oh, that on some far-off day i might marry. you’re nearly famous, so mother says. i want to be famous, too; but i’m younger than you—i’ve not had time. but i know much more about the world. don’t be hurt when i say it: your ideas about love and your generosity, and everything you do, make me feel that you’re such a child. i like you for it,” she added quickly.

then, speaking in a puzzled way: “you make things difficult. i shouldn’t be doing right by encouraging you, and——” she faltered over her words. the innocent kindness shone in her eyes. “and i can’t bear to send you away. i don’t know what to do. i’d have encouraged you if i’d written to thank you for those flowers, shouldn’t i? but they made me just as happy as—— i was a regular baby over them. every morning they lay there on my plate and i wore them the whole day. fluffy used to chaff me. you don’t like fluffy.” she winked at him provokingly. “oh, no, you don’t! you think actresses improper persons. you needn’t deny it.—and i do so want to be an actress, so as to prove to my father and mrs. sheerug, and all the lot of them, that i’m worth knowing. can’t you understand? after i’m great, i might be content to chuck the stage and become only a simple good little wife.”

“wouldn’t it be as fine,” he whispered, “to share some one else’s success?”

she gazed at him wisely. “philanthropic egotist! you know it wouldn’t. own up—don’t you know it wouldn’t?”

“for a man it wouldn’t,” he conceded ruefully.

she smiled vaguely. “then why for a woman? only love could make it different. you believe in love at first sight. i don’t at least, i’m not sure about it.”

“but you can’t call ours love at first sight.”

“ours!” she raised her brows. “yours was. you had your magic cloak ready to pop over me the moment you thought you’d found me. i’m only a lay figure.”

“you’re not,” he protested hotly. “if you’d read my book, you’d know that. your face is on every page.”

“a lay figure,” she repeated imperturbably.

she did not gratify his curiosity as to whether she had read life till twenty-one. he waited. at last, driven to desperation, he asked, “what am i to do?”

“do?”

“yes. i’ve nothing to keep me in america; i had nothing to bring me over except you. if i stay here and don’t give my people an explanation, they’ll begin to wonder. it won’t be playing the game. so if you don’t care——”

she laughed so gayly that she made all his mountain difficulties seem molehills. “what an old serious! you can’t set times and seasons for love. sooner or later, if you keep on jogging, everything turns out all right. you’ve got to believe that. it does.”

since she was his prophetess, he let her optimism go undisputed. he almost shared it. but it didn’t provide him with a certain foundation for his future.

“if you’ll stop drizzling,” she said, “i’ll set miss independence free for a run. there!” she pulled the glove off her left hand and made it scamper in the blue and green meadow of her gown. then, of a sudden, the temptress fingers shot out and caressed him for the merest second.

“life’s so much more surprising when you don’t know where you’re going. that’s what you said, king arthur. we don’t know where we’re going—we’re both too young. it’s silly to pretend we do. let’s agree to be immensely kind to each other. don’t let’s try to be anything closer as yet. if we do—” she wriggled her shoulders; the little curl trembled violently. “i do hate quarreling.—hulloa! there’s the sea. we’ll be there in a second.”

the taxi had halted in a line of automobiles. they were on a bare, sun-baked road. on every side salt-marshes stretched away, criss-crossed with ditches which drained into a muddy canal the canal crossed the road; the bridge was up to allow a fishing-boat passage. over to the left a board-walk ran; behind it the sea flashed like a mirror. straight ahead, in a straggling line of diminishing importance, hotels rose up. a little over to the right an encampment of match-box summer-cottages sweltered in the glare. hoardings met the eyes wherever they turned, announcing the choicest places to lunch, to garage or to put up for the night in long beach. at no great distance a wooden cow, of more than lifelike proportions, gave a burlesque imitation of the rural, stooping its head as if to graze while its back advertised a brand of malted milk.

the landscape would have been dreary enough without the people and the sun. but the people lent the touch of vivacity. the bright colors of women’s dresses stood out boldly in the strong, fluttering air. when seen distantly clumped together, they looked like a stage-garden, a-blow with artificial flowers. the men and women were for the most part in pairs and young—only the older people were in parties. teddy had the sense that he had joined a carnival of irresponsible lovers. probably all those men had their problems. and the girls—they, too, didn’t know where they were going. no one was indulging in the careful cowardice which takes thought for the morrow. they were leaving all future evil to take care of itself. they were finding to-day sufficient in its goodness; and of its goodness they intended to miss nothing.

when he turned to desire, he found her studying her face in a pocket-mirror and dabbing a film of powder on her impertinent little nose. he glanced away, thinking his watching would embarrass her.

she spoke with a bewitching self-composure, still scrutinizing her reflection: “i could hear your brain ticking. i was right, wasn’t i? it’s best at first not to be too much to each other?”

her naive frankness in not attempting to hide her vanity, sent a wave of affection tingling through him. it was as though by one foolish act she had entrusted him with the key to her character—her unabashed truthfulness.

he leant forward, brushing her shoulder intimately, and peered into the mirror from which her eyes watched him.

“i’ve been an old serious,” he whispered tenderly. “but now i’ll be anything you choose. let’s be just as kind as we know how.”

“let’s,” she nodded, “you convenient person.” the curl against her neck shook roguishly.

they pulled up in the courtyard of a hotel. by its architecture it might have been in spain. great palms in tubs cast heavy shadows. somewhere nearby, but out of sight, an orchestra twanged a ragtime tune. he held her hand for one breathless moment as she alighted.

“what next? are you hungry?”

she closed her eyes with feigned contempt: “hungry! glutton.”

away she fled, light as pollen, dancing in her steps in unconscious rhythm with the unseen orchestra. he caught her up where the flash of waves, rising and falling, burst upon them in tumultuous glory. she was leaning back, clutching at the brim of her hat, while the eager wind dragged at her skirt like a child entreating her to join in its frolic. she laid her hand on his arm.

“this is life. doesn’t it wake you up—make you wonder why you ever had the drizzles? we’re not the same persons. i’m not. cling on to me. i’ll blow away. you’ll have to chase me as you would your hat.”

they stepped down on to the sands and strolled along by the water’s edge, watching the bathers bobbing and splashing. when they had reached the point where the crowd grew less dense, they climbed to the board-walk for the return journey. they had made a discovery which their action confessed: aloneness brought silence; they spoke more freely when strangers swarmed about them.

teddy became aware that, wherever they passed, desire roused comment. men, who were themselves accompanied, turned to gaze after him enviously. he compared her with the other women; she was in a separate class—there wasn’t one who could match her. she had a grace, a distinction, a subtlety—an indescribable and exquisite atmosphere of freshness, which lifted her beyond the range of competition. she was like a tropic bird which had flown into a gathering of house-sparrows. moreover, she had a knack, highly flattering to his masculine vanity, of appearing to have appropriated him, of appearing to be making him her sole interest. the pride of possession shot through him that he, of all living men, should be allowed to walk by her side as if she belonged to him.

“you’re creating quite a sensation,” he told her.

she affected an improvised boredom. “oh, yes. i always do.” then, with a flash of girlishness: “look here, you’re mine to-day absolutely, aren’t you?”

“to-day and always.”

“we’ll leave out the always. but to-day you’ll do whatever i tell you.”

“anything at all.”

“then go and bathe.”

he grimaced his astonishment at the smallness of the request what was she after?

“i’ll bathe,” he consented, “if you’ll come with me. but aren’t you hungry?”

“not a bit i breakfasted late.”

“i didn’t.”

“well, if you’ll wash first, i’ll let you feed after.”

“i—” he hesitated, “i don’t want to leave you.”

“but i’m keen to see you bathe,” she insisted childishly. then, employing her most winning manner, “i’ll sit here on the beach and watch you.”

he made a last effort to tempt her. “d’you remember the pool in the woodland—the place where we camped? you thought it would make you a boy. perhaps, if you tried now——”

“nonsense.” she shook her head determinedly and sat down.

the situation was too absurd to argue over. before he left, he gave his watch and money into her keeping. he derived a queer sensation from seeing her pop them into her vanity-case. that was just the matter-of-fact way in which she’d do it if they were married.

as he undressed in the concrete bathing-house, he puzzled to discover what caprice had prompted her order. had she done it to prove that she had power over him? or had she wanted to get rid of him? had he bored her? he reviewed their conversation. all small talk! not very inspiring! his brain had been weaving a lover’s phrases, which she wouldn’t permit him to utter. the result was that the potentially eloquent lover, when stifled, had been neither brilliant nor entertaining—in fact, a dull fellow.

a horrid little suspicion sprang up. he tried to stamp it out, but it ran from him like flame through withered grass. had she wanted to be alone to enjoy the admiration she inspired? by eden row standards they had no right to be out unchaperoned. it was still less respectable for her to be alone in that fast crowd.

he hurried into his bathing-costume and stepped into the sunshine. she wasn’t where he had left her. she was nowhere in sight he was half-minded to go back and dress, but was deterred by her imagined laughter. he ran down to the sea and swam about. every time he rose on the crest of a wave he watched for her. when he passed the spot again she was still absent.

making haste over his dressing, he came out. she wasn’t there. panic began to seize him—all kinds of feverish alarms. he was setting out to search, when he saw her coming sauntering along the beach.

“hulloa!” she called breezily. “you haven’t been long. did you only paddle or did you duck your head as well?”

“where’d you get to?” he asked pantingly. “i’ve been awfully nervous.”

she cocked her head on one side like a knowing little bird.

“nervous! i’ve lived years and years without you to take care of me, and haven’t come to much harm.—you silly old thing, i was getting something for you.” she opened her vanity-case and pulled out a tin-type photograph. “there!”

then she noticed that his hand trembled. “why—why, you are upset i thought you were only cross. i’m awfully sorry.”

she melted and gazed at him penitently. in the next breath she was chaffing. “if you go on this way, i shan’t bring you out for holidays. you might die in my arms. nice thing, that! it’d ruin my reputation.”

he was regarding the cheap little picture. it was of her, with the wind breaking against her dress and the sea backing her. it was scarcely dry yet. “for me?”

“of course. and, before i lose them, here’s your watch and money.”

“and—and that’s why you insisted on my bathing: to get rid of me for a little while so that——”

she cut him short. “feeding-time. you ask too many questions.”

as they walked to the hotel, she chattered at length of her adventure. “the man who took it, he thought i was an actress. wanted to know in what show i was playing.—you don’t consider that a compliment?”

“not much.”

he was only half listening. he was remembering his unworthy suspicion, that she had stolen a respite to court admiration. perhaps all his suspicions had been equally ill-founded. perhaps behind each of her inconsideratenesses lay a concealed kindness—a tender forethought. if it had been so in one case, why not in all?

“sweetly ungrateful,” vashti had called her; “she feels far more than she’ll ever express—goes out of her way to make people misunderstand her.” and she’d added: “it’s because—— can’t you guess? she’s afraid to love too much. her mother got hurt.”

he felt humiliated—unworthy to walk beside her. no wonder she’d smiled at his ideas of love! he’d make it his life’s work, if need be, to teach her what love really meant. he vowed to himself that whatever she did, no matter how compromising the circumstances, for the future he would give her the benefit of the doubt he would never again distrust her. he would keep that pathetically cheap little photograph and gaze at it as a poignant warning.