As soon as they reached the beach he proposed taking their swim at once, and she very readily agreed. Poor girl! She hadn’t been in the sea for years, since those long gone days, those happy days when she had been a school-girl. She was, it must be admitted, rather eager to “show off” to her Englishman, for she was a good swimmer, and not at all an unpleasant object in a bathing suit. She came out of her bath-house and walked down on to the beach, conscious of her splendid symmetry, her strong, straight limbs, her face gay and boyish under a tight rubber cap. It was obvious to both of them at once that Mr. Naylor was physically not at all her equal. Gone his chic, his superiority; he was thin, fragile, rather wretched. Within her stirred faintly an old, old instinct, perverted and crushed out through generations of false training, the instinct of the woman to seek for strength and beauty in her mate. Her smile was artificial. “Beastly cold!” he grumbled. But Frances dashed by him, through the breakers, and began swimming out in strong and beautiful strokes, her bare arms flashing up rhythmically, her white teeth showing in a broad smile. She looked back, and saw Mr. Naylor moving slowly near the shore; after ten minutes or so he came out on to the sand, and lay in the sun watching her. And presently began to wave. She came inshore reluctantly. “What is it?” she asked. “It’s glorious in the water to-day. I never want to come out!” “It’s time to come out now,” he said. “Oh, it can’t be! I’ll _have_ to stop longer!” “But, I say, I want my lunch. This isn’t much of a lark for me, you know, roasting out here like this.” “Why don’t you go back into the water again?” “I can’t. It gives me a chill.” “A chill!” said Frances, and couldn’t keep a faint contempt out of her voice. “You’d better go and dress. I’ll be out presently.” “I shouldn’t think of leaving you; you’re so rash. Go ahead, enjoy yourself; I’ll wait.” His good nature conquered Frances; she gave one more look at the glittering sea and went back into her bath-house. She had to wait quite twenty minutes for him. “You’re quick, aren’t you?” he said, artlessly. “Or is it that you’re slow?” she returned. Now he was his own self again, the imperturbable, the superior. She wished to forget the shivering, frail being who had for a time supplanted him. He ordered an amazing lunch, in the old “Oriental,” which was still standing then, with its unique flavour; he saw people whom he knew by sight and could point out to Frankie. He ordered champagne, which she had never before tasted. He was like a prince, or rather, like a millionaire.... After this meal, which was nothing less than a banquet, Frances said she would have to go home. “The awful cook’s gone out,” she explained, “and I’ll have to help poor Miss E. to get something ready.” “What!” he cried. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to _cook_!” “And eat,” she answered, cheerfully. “Please don’t be mediæval.”