Rooted in turf, the immobility of cliff and rock was now her prison, while the gulls still screamed and wheeled above her.... And the real Gwladys? “Did she go down with the ship?” I’d asked Mrs. Roberts. “No, indeed, mam. There wasn’t one drowned on the _Gwladys Pritchard_,” Mrs. Roberts had assured us. “That Miss Pritchard she was marry to my cousin, Captain Lloyd, since—dear me, I don’t know when. They keepin’ a public-house in Bluemaris now. Ô! she _is_ gone stout, too!” “It would have been _prettier_ if she’d been drowned,” Blanche had said softly. “Mam?” Mrs. Roberts had said. But Mrs. Waters had finished the story by telling us gently, “Anyhow, the Lloyds have three of the _sweetest_ little grandchildren; I’ve seen them!” Evidently _she_ had thought that for either woman or ship to be safe in harbour like that was better than any more picturesque finale.... Well! I don’t know.... * * * * * We reached the flagstaff, and set down our pots of paint among the buffets of gorse that had sprays of purple ling and blue scabious growing through and making a bouquet of each. Billy’s shirt-sleeves are always rolled up to the elbow; the sleeves of my white cotton frock are three-quarter length; so we were both equipped for work, though I’d refused the offer of Mrs. Roberts’ sackcloth apron. It was _too_ coal-y and butter-y and paraffiny and scented with hen! But here the heady warm fragrance of the gorse almost drowned the smell of our paints. “Scarlet, and black, and white? Scarlet for her hat and jacket, eh?” suggested Billy. “And how are we going to paint her hands and face? What colour’s flesh?” “Some people say it’s just the colour of honeysuckle,” I answered absently. I can’t be perfectly certain that he _did_ retort so sharply, below his breath, “_Does_ he, indeed!” or that the name of Sydney Vandeleur had been threatening to crop up once more between us. Still, I was glad of the wide pink shelter of my sun-bonnet as I added, in a matter-of-fact way, “You _could_ get a sort of flesh-tint by mixing a little of the red with the white paint, but I don’t think I should. Suppose we leave the face and hands creamy-white as they are?” “Very well; and her lips red, and the jacket and that toque affair, with more dabs of scarlet for the flowers in her bunch,” he said, kneeling on the sun-warmed turf on the other side of the figure from me, “with a black wing in her hat.” “And her hair left as it is, too,” said I. “No, no! I got this on purpose for her hair,” he said, and drew a full brushful of tar-black paint across the carven and crinkly locks in front, “she must be a brunette, this time.” “Oh, and Mrs. Roberts will be so annoyed to see her without her beautiful golden chignon,” I protested, working away with the scarlet paint at the back of the jacket, “she’ll think she’s quite spoilt.”