Almost at the same moment I heard the swish of petticoats rustling over the grass from behind. I sat up straight, but did not look round till the rattle of tea-cups had ceased, and the servant who was bearing them off had almost reached the house. “Gracious! I hope she didn’t see me kissing you!” said Katherine, half-laughing. “What matter?” “Of course it matters; and it’s your fault too, for pretending to be a little boy and all that nonsense. I’m sure she’s telling the cook about it at this moment. _She_ doesn’t think you’re a little boy. Get up at once.” I knew Katherine wasn’t really much perturbed, but I got up and began to put away my colours, and we went back to the house. I left my painting materials on the window-sill, and, having made Katherine a present of my drawing, we strolled down to the shore. As we walked along the hard sand by the edge of the sea I wanted to tell her how much I cared for her. It was an admirable opportunity, and, if I could only get the first plunge over, I knew it would be all right. But I couldn’t. White sea-gulls were swooping and wheeling over the dark blue water, calling their peculiar lonely cry, and the foam of the waves was white as snow. “I _will_ tell her: I _will_ tell her,” I kept repeating to my soul; and all the time I maintained a most discreet silence on the subject, and babbled instead of the regatta that would take place on Saturday, and of the chance of a fine day. I had entered for two swimming-races and a diving-competition, and Katherine was coming to see me. I kept on talking about this, though I knew very well everything would happen exactly as it had happened last year; that in the swimming-races George Edge would be first and I should be second, and that I should win the diving-competition; and moreover I didn’t in the least care just then whether the regatta took place or not. CHAPTER XVI As a matter of fact I didn’t win the diving-competition; I wasn’t even second; and my defeat was brought about simply by my own exceeding eagerness to show off. On that Saturday the village was a holiday village. The men and boys perspired freely under heavy, ugly, Sunday clothes, and the women and girls were decked out in all kinds of finery――bright dresses, trinkets, ribbons, and cheap but brilliant hats. Why was it, I wondered, that all these fine garments should have been chosen apparently for a mysterious property they had of bringing out in the appearance of their wearers a coarseness I never noticed on ordinary occasions? Sam Geoghegan’s salmon-pink tie, Mr. McCann’s fancy waistcoat, the peacock-blue dress of Annie Breen, with its white lace collar――these were things positively bewildering, if one realized that they represented the actual taste of the persons they adorned.