The oven heat of the day dried the burn of the sun into a chalked and hammering glare--an unremitting roar of light that seemed to beat the world into a metallic sleep. The sea had stiffened itself into a dead flame. Molten, staring sweeps of color burst upon their eyes with a massive intimacy. The etched horizon, the stagnant gleaming arch of the water, and the acetylene burn of the sand gave the scene the appearance of a monstrous lithograph. The figures of the lovers lay without life. Rachel had turned her head from the glare. Through veiling fingers Dorn remained staring at the veneer of isolation about them. Waves of heat crept like ghost fires across the nakedness of the scene. He thought of the sun as a pilgrim walking over the barren floor of an empty cathedral. Over him the motionless smoke-bellied clouds hung gleaming in the dead fanfare of the sky. He thought of them as swollen white blooms stamped upon a board. As the moments slipped, he became conscious that Rachel was talking. Her voice made a tiny noise in the grave torpitude of the day. "It's like listening to singing, Erik. What are you thinking of?" "Nothing. I like the way the heat tightens my skin and pinches." "Do you remember," she asked softly, "once you said beauty is an external emotion?" He answered drowsily, "Did I? I'm tired, dearest. Let's nap awhile." "No. I want to hear you talk just a little." He pressed his face into his arm, drawing his clothes carelessly over him for protection. "I can't think of anything to say, Rachel, except that I'm content. The sun brings a luxurious pain into one's blood...." "Yes, a luxurious pain," she repeated quietly. "Please let's talk." "Too damn hot." "I always expect you to say things. As if you knew things I didn't, Erik. I've always thought of you as knowing everything." "Ordinarily I do," he mumbled. "Wonderful Erik...." Flattery was annoying. There were times for being wonderful and times for grunting at the sand. "My vocabulary," he mumbled again, "has curled up its toes and gone to sleep." His eyes grew heavy. Drowsily, "I'm an old man and need my sleep." He felt Rachel's hand reaching gently for his head. A cool gloom squatted on the sand about him when he opened his eyes. The scene was a stranger. The sea and sand, dark strangers. His body felt stiffened and his skin hurt. He sat up and stared about with parched eyes. The sun had gone down. A hollow light lingered in the sky, an echo of light. He turned toward the blanket beside him. Rachel was gone. She had left the blanket in a little heap, unfolded. Why hadn't she wakened him? She must be on the beach somewhere, waiting. In the distance he saw the shapeless figures of the fishermen moving from their grounded boats. Staring about at the deserted scene he felt unaccountably sad. It would have been pleasant to have wakened and found Rachel sitting beside him.