"I am all alone, and I am fearfully and miserably dull. This place does not attract me at all: not at this time of the year. I have not heard from my uncle. He may be here at any moment." There was no time like the present. He was suddenly bold. It was an opportunity which might never be vouchsafed to him again. "May I come with you--a little way along the cliffs?" he asked. She looked at him and hesitated. More than ever he was aware of some subtle change in her. It was as though her mental attitude towards him had adapted itself in some way to this new seriousness of demeanour. It was written in her features--his eyes read it eagerly. A certain aloofness, almost hauteur, about the lines of her mouth, creeping out even in her most careless tones, and plainly manifest in the carriage of her head, was absent. She seemed immeasurably nearer to him. She was softer and more womanly. Even her voice in its new and more delicate notes betrayed the change. Perhaps it was only a mood, yet he would take advantage of it. "What about your golf?" she said, motioning down into the valley where his antagonist was waiting. "Oh, I can easily arrange that," he declared cheerfully. "Fortunately I was playing the professional and he will not mind leaving off." He waved to his caddie, and scribbled a few lines on the back of a card. "Give that to McPherson," he said. "You can clean my clubs and put them in my locker. I shall not be playing again this morning." The boy disappeared down the hill. They stood for a moment side by side. "I have spoilt your game," she said. "I am sorry." He laughed. "I think you know," he said boldly, "that I would rather spend five minutes with you than a day at golf." She moved on with a smile at the corners of her lips. "What a downright person you are!" she said. "But honestly to-day I am not in the mood to be alone. I am possessed with an uneasy spirit of sadness. I am afraid of my thoughts." "I am only sorry," he said, "that you should have any that are not happy ones. Don't you think perhaps that you are a little lonely? You seem to have so few friends." "It is not that," she answered. "I have many and very dear friends, and it is only for a little time that I am separated from them. It is simply that I am not used to solitude, and I am becoming a creature of moods and presentiments. It is very foolish that I give way to them; but to-day I am miserable. You must stretch out that strong hand of yours, my friend, and pull me up." "I will do my best," he said. "I am afraid I cannot claim that there is anything in the shape of affinity between us; for to-day I am particularly happy." She met his eyes briefly, and looked away seawards with the ghost of a sorrowful smile upon her lips. Her words sounded like a warning. "Do not be sure," she said. "It may not last." "It will last," he said, "so long as you choose. For to-day you are the mistress of my moods!" "Then I am very sorry for you," she said earnestly.