The moon was now shining, now obscured. A capricious, gusty wind played fantastic tricks with dark clouds across its face. But by the time the eastern end of the sea wall was reached the Goddess of Night had risen clear; was shining brightly. She silvered and lighted up the rippling waters: jewelling it as only the moon can.

"Shall we rest for a few minutes?"

The suggestion was Masters'. Not that he was tired. But he had that on his mind to unload, which he felt would be easier of utterance sitting down.

They sat. After an awkward interval—she was afraid to help him—he spoke again. Not without difficulty. Love-making in his novels he had found the easiest part of his writing. He was finding reality a steed of a totally different colour.

In an imaginative man it is possible for imagination to be more real than reality; just as a painting may give a truer impression than a photograph. To Masters, just now, reality seemed frigid and limited. He felt himself bound; tied down to—and by—hard-and-fast lines.

Then again there was the horrible uncertainty: he was not sure. It was necessary to feel his way. He had heard her laugh once. He did not need a second edition of that—with himself filling the rÔle of laughee. He had no desire to figure as a larger-sized ass than was possible. Putting stripes on a donkey does not make a zebra of it. He said slowly:

"I have been here, to Wivernsea, regularly for years past. Have sat on this seat scores and scores of times. Now—I shall never forget Wivernsea or this seat."

That was his heavily-shod method of feeling his way; of nearly putting his foot into it. She afforded him no fragment of assistance; being a woman, of course help was not to be expected of her. Woman is an enigma; sympathetic to the point of soft-as-silk, heart bleeding; yet there are times when she finds pleasure in a man's agony. Masters' speech simply elicited the query:

"Why?"

He gathered boldness from the sheer impudence of her question. Felt that it was impossible that she could have misunderstood; said:

"I shall always link the place—and the seat—with thoughts of you."

Her impudence had limits. She could not affect to misunderstand that. Besides, the accelerated beating of her heart warned her. She must change the subject.

"The last time we were sitting here, Mr. Masters, you hurriedly broke into the subject of palmistry, with wise prophecies of bad weather."

"Realized prophecies! Give me that credit!"

"Certainly; you deserve it! But tell me now—quite seriously—do you believe in palmistry?"

The dexterous turning of the subject annoyed him. He was, however, compelled to reply to her question; said:

"Seriously? Well, to an extent—yes."

"Really?"

"Oh, don't think I go too far! Don't for a moment suppose that I am pretending that the geography of the future, mountains, plains—the ups and downs of life—can be studied from the map of the hand."

"And yet I have heard——"

"Charlatans profess to do so? Oh, yes; scores of them. I can understand a nimble-witted, half-a-guinea—or a guinea if she can get it—Regent Street sibyl professing so. That is fraud; absolute downright fraud. But I believe that much of a man's or woman's temperament, disposition, call it what you will, can be plainly read from the lines of the hand."

"Read mine."

She spoke impulsively. Persuasively too, the while she pulled off her glove. Palmistry, if it does not truly predict fate, is ofttimes responsible for much of its direction.

To hold her warm little hand in his—she had kept it close within the recesses of her muff—was much too good an opportunity to let slip. He bent over; spent quite a time on the study of the lines on her palm. He had only the light of the moon to work by; perhaps that accounted for the time expenditure; or perhaps he—well, anyway, he was holding her hand all the while.

During the task—it was a silent one—he was tempted, sore, to put his lips in the warm centre of what he held. Possibly she divined that; gathered it perhaps from the trembling of his fingers as they grasped her own. Stiffening a little, she queried:

"Well?"

Her voice was as the application of a brake; pulled him up. Tightening his hold on himself he loosened his tongue.

"Temperament first," he answered. "Passionate—wilful—affectionate—hasty——"

The reading was wound up at that point. The cataloguer paused, as it were, in the middle of his list. In astonishment she asked:

"Why do you stop? Is that all you can read?"

"No—no. But my belief—my faith—is shaken!"

Just a faint tremor in the voice—it was not unnoticed by him—as she asked:

"Faith? In what?"

He fenced. Did not like to shape words around what he thought he read. The truth is not always pleasant. So it was that he answered:

"Palmistry as a science."

The woman's voice was steadied again. There was a ring of merriment in it, ridiculing his seriousness, as she said—

"Why this shaken faith? Because of what you read in my hand?"

"M'yes."

"Tell me——"

"No. What I have read—the indications—I know to be wrong. This is a rude shock to my credence! I shall never again believe in palmistry's infallibility!"

"Tell me?"

She spoke impatiently; her curiosity was well aroused. Scrutinizing her hand with interest; wholly disbelieving him, she said imperatively:

"What do you read?"

"There seemed to be indicated characteristics there, the exact opposite of those you possess."

"Tell me?"

"No."

She drew her hand away a trifle angrily: obstinacy opposed to curiosity is as flint to steel. Fingers, trembling a little, began putting on her glove. The look in her eyes could not be truthfully described as softness; all the same it was very becoming.

He was not insensible of her feeling, for the birth of which he was responsible. Just restrained her: put his hand out on to hers. A simple act, but one he performed more gravely than the occasion warranted; said:

"Don't be angry."

Then hesitated; conscious, now he had spoken, that the admonition—by presupposing cause for it—was not likely to improve matters. Felt that he had put a large-sized foot into it.

"Angry!"

The glitter in her eyes, as she repeated his word, warned him that his intuition was correct; made him say:

"Well—annoyed."

"You are so—so provoking!"

"I am sorry——"

"No, you are not! You are not sorry a little bit!"

"Believe me——"

"If you were sorry for your rudeness——"

"Rudeness!"

"Yes!"

She spoke with a certain tone of defiance; her anger blinding her to the fitness of things—he was really but an acquaintance; continued:

"I think so. Tell me, what did you read?"

His silence incensed her more. Tapping her foot impatiently at his manifest reluctance to answer, she went on:

"What does it matter? You say you read the exact opposite of the truth."

"If you insist——"

She was in buckram in a moment; pride stiffened her. Drawing herself up, she interrupted him; spoke with an imperious little gesture:

"Oh, no! I have no right to do that. I merely asked."

Miss Mivvins rose to her feet: a woman's way of terminating an interview. In his sorrow—disappointment—once more he touched her hand restrainingly.

"Please sit down."

The note of pleading sounded in his voice. Then—surely his good angel whispered him which line to strike out—he added:

"Don't go yet. You are right—I was wrong."