Then he relapses into silence. It is delightful to him to sit there in the golden summer morning, watching this beautiful girl with the oval face and expressive, ever-changing eyes. Roy, extended at full length on the shingle, is dreaming, his head resting on the skirt of Olive's dress. Afar off the smoke of a distant steamer streaks the horizon, but for all else the blue sea is deserted. The shrimping boys have disappeared round the rocky promontory, and save for the girl, the man, and the dog, not a living thing moves within the cliff-girt bay. Inch by inch the sun creeps up to where they sit, which spot in a few moments will afford shade no longer. Then, faintly distant, rings out the chime of a church clock. "Three-quarters!" exclaims Olive listening. "I must go. It is a quarter to one--already." The last word slips out unconsciously. The morning has passed very quickly in the society of this man whom the merest chance has thrown in her way, and whom she may never see again; as to whose very identity she is in ignorance. "Don't go yet," pleads the stranger. "I suppose the regulation 1:30 is the time you must be back by--and it won't take three-quarters of an hour to walk to Wandsborough--if that's your destination." "Yes, it is--" She hesitates. He might as well tell her where he is staying. "Well, have pity upon a homeless wanderer, and give him and this lovely spot another short fifteen minutes." Olive yields--but neither talk much. At length she packs up her drawing things and rises. "Not `good-bye' yet," urges her companion. "Our ways lie together for a little distance. Allow me to escort you that far." Without waiting for a reply, he takes up her basket and they slowly ascend the cliff path. Roy, ever ready for a change, starts out of the land of dreams and trots briskly before them. Olive is rather silent and inclined to give random answers to her companion's occasional remarks. The fact is, she is a little bit frightened at her adventure, and her uneasiness increases the nearer they approach the town. Just as they gain the road an equestrian trots by, a young man with a pale vapid countenance. He slackens his pace as he passes, and sticking up his eyeglass favours Olive with an admiring stare. Her escort's hand instinctively clenches. "Who is that--cub?" "Yes, `cub,' that's just what he is," answers the girl angrily. "It's Hubert Dorrien." "Oh!" Her companion keeps a strange silence for the rest of the way, and there is a slight frown upon his face. "Here we are at Wandsborough," he says at length, as they gain the outskirts of the town. "I ought to have relieved you of my company before, only there was no means of doing so, as our ways both lay along the same road. Now, good-bye. I shall remember this morning for a very long time. This is a small place, and we are sure to meet again. I shall look forward to the pleasure of improving our acquaintance."