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.