"There isn't much to tell." She interlaced her fingers round her updrawn knees. Her grey eyes were turned to the sea, and Torps watched her profile against the sky wistfully, studying the pure brow, the threads of silver appearing here and there in her soft brown hair, the strong, almost boyish lines of mouth and chin. _En profile_, thus, she looked very like a handsome boy. "I've been teaching at one of those training institutes for girls on the East Coast. The principal, Miss Dacre is her name"--Margaret paused as if expecting some comment from her companion: none came--"Pauline Dacre; she was at school with mother: they were great friends; and when mother died she offered me a home. . . . I had a little money--enough to go through a course of training. I learned things----" "What sort of things?" "Oh, cooking and laundry, and hygiene--domestic science it's called." Torps nodded. "And then, when I knew enough to teach others, I went to--to this place; I've been there ever since. And that's all. Now it's your turn." Torps studied the traces of overwork and strain which showed in the faintly accentuated cheekbones and which painted little tired shadows about her eyelids. "No, it's not all. Why have you come down here?" "I--I----" She coloured as if accused. "I got a little run down . . . that was all. But I've saved some money; I can afford a rest. I'm what is called 'an independent gentlewoman of leisure' for a while." She laughed, a gay little laugh. "Do you mean you are going back there again?" She looked at him with frank surprise. "Of course I am, silly!" "Don't go back . . . not to that life again. How can you? Shut up in a sort of convent. . . . You can't be a school-marm all your life; you were meant for other things. . . . I suppose you have to sleep on a hard bed, and get up in the dark when a bell rings. There aren't any carpets, and they don't give you enough to eat, as likely as not. Margaret, why should you? It's the sort of work anyone can do-teaching kids to mangle." "But . . . what do you think I am going to do with the remainder of my days--crochet? embroider slippers for the curate? Trevor, you wouldn't like me to come to that in my old age, would you?" She spoke with gentle banter, as if to fend off something she feared. Had Torps known it, she was fencing for the happiness of them both. He shook his head gravely. "I hoped--because you had written to me--that you weren't going back. . . ." His thin, strong hand closed over hers, resting on the turf between them. He bent his head as if considering their fingers. "Margaret, dear----"