The peace of a track almost unvisited, and the unnatural calm of the water, emphasized the cruelty of this iron shore. The sea lapped softly into worn caves at the base of the cliff. Sometimes it idly flung a wave of the tide so that it slapped at a hollow rock as at a muted drum, making a sound faintly terrible, like an understatement of something too evil to be uttered aloud. Peter shuddered at the sound and at the sleeping white horror of the shore. He thought with regret of the sheltered and homely bay they had left. He had seen and enjoyed places more wild and lonely than this; but to-day he seemed no longer to desire their inhuman beauty. Last night, upon the cliff, he had been ready to jump at death. It had seemed the only possible consummation of a passion that reached beyond him. But to-day he walked upon the earth. Something was added to his love--a comfortable sanity, a touch of dear humour, an immense friendliness. He began to find in Miranda a homeliness more thrilling than the virginal beauty he had hardly dared to see. The wind and sun of their ride yesterday through Hampshire had rudely touched her face. To-day it was visibly peeling. She was no longer, in his eyes, remote and queenly, but she was infinitely more precious. He saw that her arm was freckled at the wrist. Passion would take them again, and lift them above the world, coming and going as the spirit moved. But now there was something new, something he had not before encountered, a steady will to suffer with his beloved, to live between four walls, and encounter each small adventure in a loyal league against time. The stress of his late years was now forgotten. He was eager for work--to fill up his life and make firm his foothold among men. His mind was swept and purified, his brain made clear and sweet. Life had perspective now. Miranda's humour and clear vision had touched him, conveyed in the miracle of their intimate life. He could smile now at the blind energy, the enthusiasms, sudden and absurd, of his late career. They became unreal as he talked with Miranda. Every little thing was pleasant--their unsuccessful shots at a mooring; a picnic in the boat, swinging under the Alum cliffs; Miranda's lesson in ropes and knots; their landing on the beach in a gentle surf; the elfin look of Miranda's dripping hair as they came from bathing--it seemed that no detail could be commonplace. In the evening they sailed west of the Needles, the sea divinely ruffled and lit with wind and sun. The beauty of the flecked sky and a hint of night in the east caught at them. Passion renewed shone in their eyes, passion unthwarted by the small kindness and laughter of the day. Their love could live with fun for company. It had familiarly walked and scrambled with them through the day, only the more surely to put forth wings at a touch.