It was a dreary afternoon, and he wished that something would happen. The fight on the preceding day had stirred his blood--and other things perhaps had contributed to his restless state of mind. He thought of Clare's torn frock, and he wished he had killed the carter outright. He reflected that, as the man was attacking him with a knife, he himself would have been acquitted. Late in the afternoon the sky cleared and the red light of the lowering sun struck the crests of the higher hills to eastward. Brook went out and smelled the earth-scented air, and the damp odour of the orange-blossoms. But that did not please him either, so he turned back and went through the long corridor to the platform at the back of the hotel. To his surprise he came face to face with Clare, who was walking briskly backwards and forwards, and saw him just as he emerged from the door. They both stood still and looked at each other with an odd little constraint, almost like anxiety, in their faces. There was a short, awkward silence. "Well?" said Clare, interrogatively, and raising her eyebrows a very little, as though wondering why he did not speak. "Nothing," Johnstone answered, turning his face seaward. "I wasn't going to say anything." "Oh!--you looked as though you were." "No," he said. "I came out to get a breath of air, that's all." "So did I. I--I think I've been out long enough. I'll go in." And she made a step towards the door. "Oh, please, don't!" he cried suddenly. "Can't we walk together a little bit? That is, if you are not tired." "Oh no! I'm not tired," answered the young girl with a cold little laugh. "I'll stay if you like--just a few minutes." "Thanks, awfully," said Brook in a shy, jerky way. They began to walk up and down, much less quickly than Clare had been walking when alone. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other. Johnstone remarked that he thought it would not rain again just then, and after some minutes of reflection Clare said that she remembered having seen two thunderstorms within an hour, with a clear sky between, not long ago. Johnstone also thought the matter over for some time before he answered, and then said that he supposed the clouds must have been somewhere in the meantime--an observation which did not strike either Clare or even himself as particularly intelligent. "I don't think you know much about thunderstorms," said Clare, after another silence. "I? No--why should I?" "I don't know. It's supposed to be just as well to know about things, isn't it?" "I dare say," answered Brook, indifferently. "But science isn't exactly in my line, if I have any line." They recrossed the platform in silence. "What is your line--if you have any?" Clare asked, looking at the ground as she walked, and perfectly indifferent as to his answer.