Suddenly she started and turned to meet his gaze with half-startled, inscrutable eyes. “The tide is on the turn,” she said, in a quick-breathed undertone--then the stone under her foot slipped and settled, she flung out her arms to steady herself, and barely recovered her balance as she swayed for an instant on the edge of the rough stone parapet. In wild anxiety Glyn sprang forward, heedless of her book, which fell fluttering past his head. “Take care!” he cried. “Take care!” She smiled down at him, her lips a little white, but otherwise perfectly composed. “It’s too bad,” she said. “From the first day I met you, I am always frightening you to death, Mr. Glyn.” Was she thinking of his failure of the night before? Glyn’s heart quivered with mortification. “Yes,” he said; “it’s easy to frighten me, you see.” She laughed again--a little, quick, troubled laugh. “But I didn’t come down here to see you, you know, Mr. Glyn,” she said. “I was going out on the end of the breakwater to read for a little while, till lunch time--I didn’t expect to see you, you know.” Why need she disclaim so eagerly any wish to see him? thought Glyn to himself. Not much danger of his flattering himself to the contrary. So he bowed with as much composure as he could muster. “Certainly,” he replied; “and I am very sorry to have intruded upon your solitude. But let me see, your book--it fell past me just now, I think.” He turned to search among the bowlders which lay strewed about him. Suddenly Elfrida’s voice came to him, strained and high. “Mr. Glyn,” she said, “please don’t take any trouble about my book.” He paused, perplexed. “It’s no trouble, Miss May, I assure you. Look! I can see it there between the bowlders in the seaweed--a new book, isn’t it? Here, let me give it to you.” He took a step toward it. “Mr. Glyn!” cried Elfrida. “You mustn’t--you mustn’t! I forbid you to touch my book!” Glyn turned and gazed up at her. She was leaning down toward him from the rough masonry above, her hands stretched out, her face flushed to a bright crimson, her eyes sparkling, wide open, filled with anger and with something else besides--misgiving and something that was almost like fear. “Mr. Glyn!” she repeated, violently. “Please go away now, please! And let me come down and pick up my book myself!” Glyn looked up at her, at her face, wild, beautiful and threatening, bent down toward him. So her scorn for him was so deep, her detestation so entire, that he was not to be permitted to touch so much as the book that had fallen from her hand. Now, at last, beyond a doubt, he had his answer. He stood silent for a moment, looking dumbly first at the half-soaked volume almost hidden among the seaweed, then at the head above him, so lovely and so carelessly terrible, bright and golden against the blue background of the sky. “Miss May,” he said, “believe me, I had no intention of intruding on you. I beg your pardon, and--good-by, Elfie!”