Columbus was not accustomed to being awakened in the early June morning and taken for a scamper when the sun was still scarcely two hours up. He arose blinking at his mistress's behest, and but for her brisk urging he would have turned over again and slept. But Juliet was insistent.

"I'm going down to the shore, you old sleepy-head," she told him. "Don't you want to come?"

She herself had scarcely slept throughout the brief night, and a great yearning for the sunshine and the sea was upon her. The solitude of the beach drew her irresistibly. It was Sunday morning, and she knew that no one but herself would be up for hours. She had grown to love it so, the silence and the shining emptiness and the marvel of the sea. She could not remember any other place that had ever attracted her in the same way. It suited every mood.

There was a short cut across the park, and she and Columbus took it, hastening over the dewy grass till they reached a path that led to the cliffs and the shore. Only the larks above them and the laughing waves before, made music in this world of the early morning. The peacefulness of it was like a benediction.

"And before the Throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal…." She found herself murmuring the words, for in that morning purity it seemed to her that the very ground beneath her feet was holy. She was conscious of a throbbing desire to reach out to the Infinite, to bring her troubled spirit to the Divine waters of healing.

She reached the shingly shore, and went down over the stones to the waves breaking in the sunlight. Yes, she was tired—she was tired; but this was peace. The tears sprang to her eyes as she stood there. What a place to be happy in! But happiness was not for her.

After a space she turned and walked along the strand till she came to the spot where she and Columbus had first sat together and played at being wrecked on a desert island. And here she sat down and put her arms around her faithful companion and leaned her head against his rough coat.

"I wish it had been true, Columbus," she said. "We were so happy just alone."

He kissed her with all a dog's pure devotion, sensing trouble and seeking to comfort. As he had told her many a time before, her company was really all his soul desired. All other interests were mere distractions. She was the only thing that counted in his world.

His earnest assurances on this point had their effect. She sat up and smiled at him through her tears.

"Yes, I know, my Christopher," she said, and kissed him between the eyes.
"But the difficulty now is, what are we going to do?"

Columbus pondered for a few seconds, and then suggested a crab-hunt.

"Excellent idea!" said Juliet, and let him go.

But she herself sat on in the early sunshine with her chin upon her hand for a long, long time.

The tide was coming in. The white-tipped waves broke in flashing foam that spread almost to her feet. The sparkle of it danced in her dreaming eyes, but it did not rouse her from her reverie.

Perhaps she was half asleep after the weary watching of the night, or perhaps she was only too tired to notice, but when a voice suddenly spoke behind her she started as if at an electric shock. She had almost begun to feel that she and Columbus were indeed marooned on this wide shore.

"Are you waiting for the sea to carry you away?" the voice said. "Because you won't have to wait much longer now."

She turned as she sat. She had heard no sound of approaching feet. The swish of the waves had covered all beside. She looked up at him with a feeling of utter helplessness. "You!" she said.

He turned behind her, slim, upright, intensely vital, in the morning light. She had an impression that he was dressed in loose flannels, and she saw a bath-towel hanging round his neck.

"You have been bathing," she said.

He laughed down at her, she saw the gleam of the white teeth in his dark face. "I say, what a good guess! You look shocked. Is it wrong to bathe on Sunday?"

And then quite naturally he stretched a hand to her and helped her to her feet.

"I've been watching you for a long time," he said. "I was only a dot in the ocean, so of course you didn't see me. I say,—tell me,—what's the matter?"

The question was so sudden that it caught her unawares. She found herself looking straight into the dark eyes and wondering at their steady kindliness. She knew instinctively that she looked into the eyes of a friend, and as a friend she spoke in answer.

"I have had rather a worrying night. I came out for a little fresh air.
It was such a perfect morning."

"And you hoped you would have the place to yourself and be able to cry it off in comfort," he said. "I wouldn't have interfered for the world if I hadn't been afraid that you were going to drown yourself into the bargain. And I really couldn't bear that. There are limits, you know."

She laughed a little in spite of herself. "No, I have no intention of drowning myself. I am not so desperate as that."

He smiled at her whimsically. "It happens sometimes unintentionally.
Let's climb up to the next shelf and sit down!"

Her hand was still in his. He kept it to help her up the tumbling stones to a higher ridge of shingle.

"Will this do?" he asked her. "May I stay for a bit? I'll be very good."

"You always are good," said Juliet, as she sat down.

"No? Really? You don't mean that? Well, it's awfully kind of you if you do, but it isn't true." He dropped down beside her and offered her his cigarette-case. "I can be—I have been—a perfect devil sometimes."

"Yes. I know," she said, as she chose a cigarette.

"Oh, you know that, do you? How do you know?" He was watching her closely, but as the faint colour mounted to her face, his eyes fell. "No, don't tell me! It doesn't matter. Wait while I get you a match!"

He struck one and held it first for her and then for himself, his brown hand absolutely steady. Then he turned with a certain resolution and fixed his eyes upon the gleaming horizon.

"It was kind of you to come round to the sing-song last night," he said, after a pause. "I hope it wasn't that that made you sleep badly."

"I enjoyed it," said Juliet, ignoring the last remark. "Your performance was wonderful. I should think you are tired after it."

"That sort of thing doesn't tire me," he said. "There's no difficulty about it when it goes with a swing and everybody is out to make it a success. I shall get you to sing next time."

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Green."

"Why not?" He turned and looked at her again, his hand shading his eyes.

She hesitated.

"Do you mind telling me?" he said gently. "There is a reason of course?"

"Yes." Yet she smoked her cigarette in silence after the word as though there were nothing more to be said.

He sat motionless, still with his hand over his eyes. At last "Juliet," he said, his voice very low, "am I being—a nuisance to you?"

She looked at him swiftly. He had uttered the name so spontaneously that she wondered if he realized that he had made use of it.

He went on before she could find words to answer him. "I'm not a bounder. At least I hope not. But—yesterday—last night—I hadn't got such a firm hold on myself as usual. I began by being furiously angry—you remember the episode at the gate—and that weakened my self-control. Then—when I knew you were standing there listening—temptation came to me, and I hadn't the strength to resist. You knew, didn't you? You understood?"

She nodded mutely.

"Will you forgive me?" he said.

She was silent. How could she tell him what that wild passion of music had done to her?

He went on after a moment. "I hope you'll try anyway, because I never meant to offend you. Only somehow I felt possessed. I had to reach you—or die. But I didn't mean to hurt you. My dear, you do believe that, don't you? My love is more than a selfish craving. I can do without you. I will—since I must. But I shall go on loving you—all my life."

His voice was still very low, but it had steadied. He spoke with the strong purpose of a man secure in his own self-mastery. He loved her, but he made no demand upon her. He recognized that his love entitled him to no claim. He even asked her forgiveness for having revealed it to her.

And suddenly the hot tears welled again in Juliet's eyes. She could not speak in answer, but in a moment she stretched her hand to his.

He took it and held it close. "Don't cry!" he said gently. "I'm not worth it. I've been a fool—no, not a fool to love you, but a three times idiot to lose hold of myself like this. There! It's over. I'm not going to bother you any more. And you're not going to let yourself be bothered. What? You're not going to run away because of me, are you? Promise me you won't!"

Her fingers closed upon his. It was almost involuntarily. "I don't think
I ought to stay," she whispered.

"I knew that was it!" He bent towards her. "Juliet! I say, please, dear, please! If one of us must go, it must be I. But there is no need. Believe me, there is no need. I've got myself in hand. I won't come near you—I swear—if you don't wish it."

"But—suppose—suppose—" Her voice broke. She drew her hand free and covered her face. "Oh, it's all so hopeless!" she sobbed. "I ought to have managed—better."

"No, no!" In a flash his arm was round her, strong and ready; he drew her to rest against his shoulder. "There's nothing to cry about really—really! If you knew how I loathe myself for making you cry! But listen! Nobody knows. Nobody's going to know. What happened last night is between you and me alone. Only you had the key. It isn't going to make any difference in your life. You'll go on as you were before. You'll forget I ever dared to intrude on you. What, darling? What? Yes, you will forget. Of course you'll forget. I'll see to it that you do. I'll—I'll—"

"Oh, stop!" Juliet said, and suddenly her face was turned upwards on his shoulder, her forehead was against his neck. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life!"

"What?" he said, and fell abruptly silent and so tensely still that she thought even his heart must have been arrested on the word.

For a long, long second she also was motionless, rigidly pressed to him, then with an odd little fluttering sigh she began to withdraw herself from the encircling arm. "I've dropped my cigarette," she said.

"Juliet!" He stooped over her; his face was close to hers. "Am I mad? Or am I dreaming? Please make me understand! What is the mistake I have made?"

She did not look at him, but he saw that her tears were gone and she was faintly, tremulously smiling. "That cigarette—" she murmured. "It really isn't safe to leave it. I don't like—playing with fire."

He bent lower. "We've got to risk something," he said, and with a swiftness of decision that she had not expected he took her chin and turned her face fully upwards to his own.

The colour rushed in vivid scarlet to her temples. She met his eyes for one fleeting second then closed her own with a gasp and a blind effort to escape that was instantly quelled. For he kissed her—he kissed her—pressing his lips to hers closely and ever more closely, as a man consumed with thirst draining the cup to the last precious drop.

When he let her go, she was burning, quivering, tingling from head to foot as if an electric current were coursing through and through her. And the citadel had fallen. She made no further attempt to keep him out.

But he did not kiss her a second time. He only held her against his heart. "Ah, Juliet—Juliet!" he said, and she felt the deep quiver of his words. "I've got you—now! You are mine."

She was panting, wordless, thankful to avail herself of the shelter he offered. She leaned against him for many seconds in palpitating silence.

For so long indeed was she silent that in the end misgiving pierced him and he felt for the downcast face. But in a moment she reached up and took his hand in hers, restraining him.

"Not again!" she whispered. "Please not again!"

"All right. I won't," he said. "Not yet anyhow. But speak to me! Tell me it's all right! You're not frightened?"

"I am—a little," she confessed.

"Not at me! Juliet!"

"No, not at you. At least," she laughed unsteadily. "I'm not quite sure. You—you—I think you must let me go for a minute—to get back my balance."

"Must I?" he said.

She lifted the hand she had taken and laid it against her cheek. "I've got—a good deal to say to you, Dick," she said. "You've taken me so completely by storm. Please be generous now! Please let me have—the honours of war!"

"My dear!" he said.

He let her go with the words, and she clasped her hands about her knees and looked out to sea. She was still trembling a little, but as he sat beside her in unbroken silence she grew gradually calmer, and presently she spoke without any apparent difficulty.

"You've taken a good deal for granted, Dick, haven't you? You don't know me very well."

"Don't I?" he said.

"No. You've been—dreadfully headlong all through." She smiled faintly, with a touch of sadness. "You've skipped all the usual preliminaries—which isn't always wise. Don't you teach your boys to look before they leap?"

"When there's time," he said. "But you know, dear, you gave the word for—the final plunge."

She nodded slowly once or twice. "Yes. But I didn't expect quite—quite—Well, never mind what I expected! The fact remains, we haven't known each other long enough. No, I know we can't go back now and begin again. But, Dick, I want you—and it's for your sake as much as for my own—I want you, please, to be very patient. Will you? May I count on that?"

He put out his hand to her and gently touched her shoulder. "Don't talk to me like a slave appealing to a sultan!" he said.

She made a little movement towards him, but she did not turn. "I don't want to hurt you," she said. "But I'm going to ask of you something that you won't like—at all."

"Well, what is it?" he said.

"I want you—" she paused, then turned and resolutely faced him—"I want you to be—just friends with me again," she said.

His eyes looked straight into hers. "In public you mean?" he said.

"In private too," she answered.

"For how long?" Swiftly he asked the question, his eyes still holding hers with a certain mastery of possession.

She made a slight gesture of pleading. "Until you know me better," she said.

His brows went up. "That's not a business proposition, is it? You don't really expect me to agree to that. Now do you?"

"Ah! But you've got to understand," she said rather piteously. "I'm not in the least the sort of woman you think I am. I'm not—Dick, I'm not—a specially good woman."

She spoke the words with painful effort, her eyes wavered before his. But in a moment, without hesitation, he had leapt to the rescue.

"My darling, don't tell me that! I can see what you are. I know! I know! I don't want your own valuation. I won't listen to it. It's the one point on which your opinion has no weight whatever with me. Please don't say any more about it! It's you that I love—just as you are. If you were one atom less human, you wouldn't be you, and my love—our love—might never have been."

She sighed. "It would have saved a lot of trouble if it hadn't, Dick."

"Don't be silly!" he said. "Is there anything else that matters half as much?"

She was silent, but her look was dubious. He drew suddenly close to her, and slipped his hand through her arm.

"Is there anything else that really matters at all, Juliet? Tell me! I've got to know. Does—Robin matter?"

She started at the question. It was obviously unexpected. "No! Of course not!" she said.

"Thank you," he said steadily. "I loved you for that before you said it."

She laid her hand upon his and held it. "That's—one of the things I love you for, Dick," she said, with eyes downcast. "You are so—splendidly—loyal."

"Sweetheart!" he said softly. "There's no virtue in that."

Her brows were slightly drawn. "I think there is. Anyway it appeals to me tremendously. You would stick to Robin—whatever the cost."

"Well, that, of course!" he said. "I flatter myself I am necessary to
Robin. But with Jack it is otherwise. I've kicked him out."

"Dick!" She looked at him in sharp amazement.

He smiled, a thin-lipped smile. "Yes. It had to be. I've put up with him long enough. I told him so last night."

"You—quarrelled?" said Juliet.

"No. We didn't quarrel. I gave him his marching orders, that's all."

"But wasn't he very angry?"

"Oh, pshaw!" said Dick. "What of it?"

She was looking at him intently, for there was something merciless about his smile. "Do you always do that, I wonder," she said, "with the people who make you angry?"

"Do what?" he said.

"Kick them out." Her voice held a doubtful note.

He turned his hand upwards and clasped hers. "My darling, it was a perfectly just sentence. He deserved it. Also—though I admit I have only thought of this since—it's the best thing that could happen to him. He can make his own way in life. It's high time he did so. I didn't kick him out because I was angry with him either."

"But you were angry," she said. "You were nearly white-hot."

He laughed. "I kept my hands off him anyhow. But I can't be answerable for the consequences if anyone sets to work to bait Robin persistently. It's not fair to the boy—to either of us."

"Do you think Robin might do him a mischief?" she asked.

"I think—someone might," he answered grimly. "But never mind that now! You don't regard Robin as a just cause and impediment. What's the next obstacle? My profession?"

"No," she said instantly and emphatically. "I like that part of you.
There's something rather quaint about it."

His quick smile flashed upon her. "Oh, thanks awfully! I'm glad I'm quaint. But I didn't know it was a quality that appealed to you. I've been laying even odds with myself that I'd make you have me in spite of it."

She coloured a little. "It doesn't really count one way or the other with me, Dick, any more than it would count with you if I hawked stale fish in the street for cat's meat. You see I haven't forgotten that pretty compliment of yours. But—"

"But?" he said, frowning whimsically. "We'll have the end of that sentence, please. It's the very thing I want to get at. What is the 'but'?"

She hesitated.

"Go on!" he commanded.

"Don't be a tyrant, Dick!" she said.

"My beautiful princess!" He touched her shoulder with his lips. "Then don't you—please—be a goose! Tell me—quick!"

"And if I can't tell you, Dick? If—if it's just an instinct that says, Wait? We've been too headlong as it is. I can't—I daren't—go on at this pace." She was almost tearful. "I must have a little breathing-space indeed. I came here for peace and quietness, as you know."

He broke into a sudden laugh. "So you did, dear. You were playing hide-and-seek with yourself, weren't you? I'll bet you never expected to find the other half of yourself in this remote corner, did you? Well, never mind! Don't cry sweetheart—anyhow till you've got a decent excuse. I don't want to rush you into anything against your will. Taken properly, I'm the meekest fellow in creation. But we must have things on a sensible footing. You see that, don't you?"

"If we could be just friends," she said.

"Well, I'm quite willing to be friends." He laughed into her eyes. "Why so distressful? Don't you like the prospect?"

She drew his hand down into her lap and held it between her own, looking gravely down at it. "Dick!" she said.

His smile passed. "Well, dear? What is it? You're not going to be afraid of me?"

She did not answer him. "I want you to leave me free a little longer," she said.

"But you are not free now," he said.

She threw him a brief, half-startled glance. "I don't mean that," she said rather haltingly. "I mean I want you—not to ask any promise of me—not to insist upon any bond between us—not to—not to—expect a formal engagement—until,—well, until—"

"Until you are ready to marry me," he suggested quietly.

A quick tremor went through her. "That won't be for a long time," she said.

"How long?" he said.

"I don't know. Dick. I haven't the least idea. I had almost made up my mind never to marry at all."

"Really?" he said. "Do you know, so had I. But I changed it the moment I met you. When did you change yours?"

She laughed, but without much mirth. "I'm not sure that—"

"No, don't you say that to me!" he interrupted. "It's not cricket. You are—quite sure, though you rather wish you weren't. Isn't that the position? Honestly now!"

"Honestly," she said, "I can't be engaged to you yet."

"All right," he said unexpectedly. "You needn't call it that if you don't want to. Facts are facts. We may not be engaged, but we are—permanently—attached. We'll leave it at that."

Again swiftly she glanced towards him. "No, but, Dick—"

"Yes, but, Juliet—" His hand moved suddenly, imprisoning both of hers. "You can't get away," he said, speaking very rapidly, "any more than I can. If you put the whole world between us, we shall still belong to each other. That is irrevocable. It isn't your doing, and it isn't mine. It's a Power above and beyond us both. We can't help ourselves."

He spoke with fierce earnestness, a depth of concentration, that gripped her just as his music had gripped her the night before. She sat motionless, bound by the same spell that had bound her then. She did not want to meet his eyes, but they drew irresistibly. In the end she did so.

For a space not reckoned by time she surrendered herself to a mastery that would not be denied. She met the kindling flame of his worship, and was strangely awed and humbled thereby. She knew now beyond all question that this man was not as most men. He came to her with the first, untainted offering of his love. No other woman had been before her in that inner sanctuary which he now flung wide for her to enter. There was a purity, a primitive simplicity, about his passion which made her realize that very clearly. He was no boy. He had lived a life of hard self-discipline and had put his youth behind him long since. But he brought all the intensity of a boy's adoration to back his manhood's strength of purpose, and before it she was impotent and half-afraid. The men of her world had all been of a totally different mould. She was accustomed to cynicism and the half-mocking homage of jaded experience. But this was new, this was wonderful—a force that burned and dazzled her, yet which attracted her irresistibly none the less, thrilling her with a rapture that had never before entered her life. Whatever the risk, whatever the penalty, she was bound to go forward now.

She spoke at last, her eyes still held by his. "I think you are right. We can't help it. But oh. Dick, remember that—remember that—if ever there should come a time when you wish you had done—otherwise!"

"If ever I do what?" he said. "Do you mind saying that again?"

She shook her head. "But I'm not laughing. Dick. You've carried me out of my depth, and—I'm not a very good swimmer."

"All right, darling," he said. "Lean on me! I'll hold you up."

She clasped his hand tightly. "You will be patient?" she said.

He smiled into her anxious face. "As patient as patient," he said. "That,
I take it, means I'm not to tell anybody, does it?"

She bent her head. "Yes, Dick."

"All right," he said. "I won't tell a soul without your consent. But—" he leaned nearer to her, speaking almost under his breath—"when I am alone with you, Juliet—I shall take you in my arms—and kiss you—as I have done to-day."

Again a swift tremor went through her. She looked at him no longer. "Oh, but not—not without my leave," she said.

"You will give me leave," he said.

She was silent for a space. He was drawing her two hands to him, and she tried to resist him. But in the end he had his way, and she yielded with a little laugh that sounded oddly passionate.

"I believe you could make me give you anything," she said.

"But you can't give me what is mine already," he made quiet answer, as he pressed the two trembling hands against his heart. "That is understood, isn't it? And when you are tired of working for your living, you will come to me and let me work for you."

"Perhaps," she said, with her head bent.

"Only perhaps?" he said.

His voice was deeply tender. He was trying to look into the veiled eyes.

"Only perhaps?" he said again.

She made a little movement as if she would free herself, but checked it on the instant. Then very slowly she lifted her face to his, but she did not meet his look. Her eyes were closed.

"Some day," she said with quivering lips,—"some day—I will."

He took her face between his hands, and held it so as if he waited for something. Then, after a moment, "Some day—wife of my heart!" he said very softly, and kissed the eyes that would not meet his own.