Olive laughs softly to herself as she looks after him. He is so cool and self-possessed, and then his voice, too, is a very pleasing one. Who can he be? She hopes he will return soon with or without the water, and not be in a very great hurry to continue his walk. Then she is the least bit in the world frightened. What would Margaret, for instance, say if she could see her sitting in this out-of-the-way corner of the seashore, talking to a man who is a perfect stranger? And how the tongues of Wandsborough would clack--a phase of exercise, by the way, to which those unruly members were by no means unaccustomed. Anyhow she can see at a glance that the man is thoroughbred. If he is making any stay in Wandsborough, as she is inclined to think is the case, she is sure to meet him sooner or later, so why not forestall the acquaintance? If he is not, why then in all probability she will never see him again, and in either case there is no harm done. She is thus musing, when the object of her reflections appears at her side, as suddenly as he did before. "I have been successful," he says, setting down the canister very carefully. "But I am afraid you were waxing impatient." "Not at all. I think you have been very quick, and I did hope you would be able to find me some water, for I feel in the humour for daubing just now." "Good. And now allow me to arrange the necessary articles," and without waiting for an answer he opens her colour-box and sets her palettes and brushes in order. "An artist," thinks the girl. "Of course that's what he is," and on the strength of this inspiration she ploughs away nervously with her brush, though shyness as a rule is not one of those sins which can fairly be laid to Olive Ingelow's charge. "That won't do," presently remarks the stranger, who is leaning lazily against the rock watching her work. "Excuse me--but you must just round off this outline a little more--it is too hard and steely--so," as acting obediently on his directions the drawing begins to assume life-like shape. "I suppose you paint a great deal?" ventures Olive deferentially. Who knows what R.A. of renown may be criticising her crude attempts! "No, I don't." "But you used to," she persists. "Never wielded a brush in my life." "But you seem to know all about it. How in the world could you tell me to make those alterations if you can't paint yourself?" she asks quickly, her incredulity giving way to a flash of not unnatural resentment. "Pardon me. I didn't say I couldn't. What I said was that I never had." "Isn't that the same thing?" "No, because I could--if I tried." "How do you know you could?" "Well, since you so mercilessly bring me to bay I am compelled to answer you with a woman's reason. I know it--because I do." They both laugh heartily. "And now tell me," goes on the stranger. "What is the name of those two eccentric towers of rock you are drawing?"