"
Wingrave nodded.
"I believe that I remember it," he said; "you were a mournful-looking
object in a very soiled pinafore and most untidy hair."
"I had been out on the cliffs," she reminded him, "where I am taking
you now. If you are going to make unkind remarks about my hair, I
think that I had better fetch a hat."
"Pray don't leave me," he answered. "I should certainly lose my way.
Your hair in those days was, I fancy, a little more--unkempt!"
She laughed.
"It used to be cut short," she said. "Hideous! There! Isn't that
glorious?"
She had opened the postern gate in the wall, and through the narrow
opening was framed a wonderful picture of the Cornish sea, rolling
into the rock-studded bay. Its soft thunder was in their ears; salt
and fragrant, the west wind swept into their faces. She closed the
gate behind her, and stepped blithely forward.
"Come!" she cried. "We will climb the cliffs where we left you alone
once before."
Side by side they stood looking over the ocean. Her head was thrown
back, her lips a little parted. He watched her curiously.
"You must have sea blood in your veins," he remarked. "You listen as
though you heard music all the time."
"And what about you?" she asked him, smiling. "You are the grandson of
Admiral Sir Wingrave Seton who commanded a frigate at Trafalgar, and
an ancestor of yours fought in the Armada."
"I am afraid," he said quietly, "that there is a hiatus in my life
somewhere.
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