Fanshawe thought with so much shame, yet felt himself incapable of changing. “Most people come here for golf,” she would say, when his long lingering was remarked. “Why should he not stay--for his own pleasure--if he likes it? Is golf such an elevating occupation?” This was said, not because she despised golf, but because of him whom she felt herself bound to defend, and who had not even golf--who had only herself, for his excuse. The way in which all this ended was as follows: Marjory had gone out to the Spindle on a bright Winter day to pay a farewell visit to that spot which had occupied so important a place in her past life. Who does not know the keen and radiant brightness of a sunny day in Winter, when there is no wind to chill the still air, no clouds upon the deepened blue, none of the languid softening of Summer, but every outline sharp, and every tint brought out by the radiant sun and clear atmosphere? The rocks unfolded all their glittering veins, all their ruddy stains of colour under the sunshine. There were no trees to keep the fact of decay before the spectator by means of fallen leaves and bare anatomy of branches. The sea was like a great blue mirror, except where the crisped surface, still, though ruffled, betrayed some breath of wandering air. The sails of the fishing boats rose brown out of this dazzling surface, and in the distance some far white ships glided like great sea-birds along the bright broad line of the horizon to which both sky and sea went out widening and paling. The sun was warm, and Marjory seated herself, for a few moments, on a dry rock from which the sea had long ebbed. This stillness was more intense than it ever is on a Summer day--the brightness almost more intense too. She sat and thought of all that had passed there--of Isabell and her death-bed--of the strange way in which this corner of rocky beach had been thrust into her own story. She was disturbed and annoyed when she heard a step approaching, scattering the pebbles, and sounding through the Winter’s stillness. She was still more disturbed, but perhaps not annoyed, when she saw that the intruder was Fanshawe. He was the only intruder whose presence she could have endured; and when she saw him, she rose and went to meet him, taking the path towards home, which somehow made the encounter less embarrassing. He turned and accompanied her. It is a long walk, winding up and down by many a fold of the bold coast, now at the foot of the cliffs, now above--an endless walk to people who are embarrassed by finding themselves together; and yet not disagreeable--one of those opportunities of pleasant pain which few have the courage to avoid; and which may become, who knows, all pleasure, and no pain, by the chance of a sudden word.