Nan herself was afraid of very little. She had that kind of buoyant physical gallantry which would take her into the jaws of danger with a laugh. When in London during the air raids she had walked about the streets to see what could be seen; in France with the Fannys she had driven cars over shelled roads with a cool composure which distinguished her even among that remarkably cool and composed set of young women; as a child she had ridden unbroken horses and teased and dodged savage bulls for the fun of it; she would go sailing in seas that fishermen refused to go out in; part angry dogs which no other onlooker would touch; sleep out alone in dark and lonely woods, and even on occasion brave pigs. The kind of gay courage she had was a physical heritage which can never be acquired. What can be acquired, with blood and tears, is the courage of the will, stubborn and unyielding, but always nerve-racked, proudly and tensely strung up. Nan's form of fearlessness, combined as it was with the agility of a supple body excellently trained, would carry her lightly through all physical adventures, much as her arrowy strength and skill carried her through the breakers without blundering or mishap and let her now ride buoyantly on each green mountain as it towered. Barry, emerging spluttering from one of these, said "All very jolly for you, Nan. You're a practised hand. We're being drowned. I'm going out of it," and he dived through another wave for the shore. Kay, a clumsier swimmer, followed him, and Nan rode her tossing horses, laughing at them, till she was shot onto the beach and dug her fingers deep into the sucking sand. "A very pretty landing," said Barry, generously, rubbing his bruised limbs and coughing up water. Gerda rose from the foam where she had been playing serenely impervious to the tauntings of Kay. Barry said "Happy child. She's not filled up with salt water and battered black and blue." Nan remarked that neither was she, and they went to their rock crannies to dress. They dressed and undressed in a publicity, a mixed shamelessness that was almost appalling. They rode back to Marazion after tea along the high road, more soberly than they had come. "Tired, Gerda?" Barry said, at the tenth mile, as they pulled up a hill. "Hold on to me." Gerda refused to do so mean a thing. She had her own sense of honour, and believed that everyone should carry his or her own burden. But when they had to get off and walk up the hill she let him help to push her bicycle. "Give us a few days, Nan," said Barry, "and we'll all be as fit as you. At present we're fat and scant of breath from our sedentary and useful life." "Our life"--as if they had only the one between them.