"However, the young lady seemed to be a trifle reassured. I noticed she drew a sigh of relief and looked at my shoes. She looked so long that it made me suspicious, and I also examined my shoes. They seemed to be in a fair state of repair. "'I--I am sorry,' she said, 'but would you mind not walking on the beach?' "This was sudden. I had intended to retire and leave the beach to her, but I did not fancy being driven away so abruptly. "'Dear me!' she cried; 'you don't understand. I do not--I would not think for a moment of asking you to leave Pine Inlet. I merely ventured to request you to walk on the dunes. I am so afraid that your footprints may obliterate the impressions that my father is studying.' "'Oh!' said I, looking about me as though I had been caught in the middle of a flower-bed; 'really I did not notice any impressions. Impressions of what?' "'I don't know,' she said, smiling a little at my awkward pose. 'If you step this way in a straight line you can do no damage.' "I did as she bade me. I suppose my movements resembled the gait of a wet peacock. Possibly they recalled the delicate manoeuvres of the kangaroo. Anyway, she laughed. "This seriously annoyed me. I had been at a disadvantage; I walk well enough when let alone. "'You can scarcely expect,' said I, 'that a man absorbed in his own ideas could notice impressions on the sand. I trust I have obliterated nothing.' "As I said this I looked back at the long line of footprints stretching away in prospective across the sand. They were my own. How large they looked! Was that what she was laughing at? "'I wish to explain,' she said, gravely, looking at the point of her parasol. 'I am very sorry to be obliged to warn you--to ask you to forego the pleasure of strolling on a beach that does not belong to me. Perhaps,' she continued, in sudden alarm, 'perhaps this beach belongs to you?' "'The beach? Oh no,' I said. "'But--but you were going to write poems about it?' "'Only one--and that does not necessitate owning the beach. I have observed,' said I, frankly, 'that the people who own nothing write many poems about it.' "She looked at me seriously. "'I write many poems,' I added. "She laughed doubtfully. "'Would you rather I went away?' I asked, politely. 'My family is respectable,' I added; and I told her my name. "'Oh! Then you wrote _Culled Cowslips_ and _Faded Fig-Leaves_ and you imitate Maeterlinck, and you--Oh, I know lots of people that you know;' she cried, with every symptom of relief; 'and you know my brother.' "'I am the author,' said I, coldly, 'of _Culled Cowslips_, but _Faded Fig-Leaves_ was an earlier work, which I no longer recognize, and I should be grateful to you if you would be kind enough to deny that I ever imitated Maeterlinck. Possibly,' I added, 'he imitates me.' "She was very quiet, and I saw she was sorry.