It will never be known whether or not James knew that Susan and Posy were going to Weymouth. We do know that Posy met James on the pier, and was much struck by his gentlemanly appearance. It is possible that the young man planned this meeting; it is quite impossible to infer as much from what passed between them. James raised a neat straw hat, and was strolling on, when Posy waved her parasol. "Are you thinking of cutting me?" she asked, holding out her hand. "What an extraordinary coincidence your being here?" "Is it?" asked James quietly. "I have been to Weymouth before, have you?" "No; this is our first visit. Did father tell you we were coming?" "No." He laughed derisively, as he continued, "Mr. Quinney does not talk to me about you. I can imagine that he might—er—object——" He paused significantly. "Object to what?" "To this. I know my place, Miss Quinney." He was as humble as Uriah Heep, but more prepossessing in appearance. The sun and wind had tanned his cheeks, his brown hair curled crisply beneath the brim of his smart hat. He wore white shoes and quiet grey "flannels. "Now that you are here," said Posy, "let us sit down and listen to the band. Mother is writing to father. She writes every day, dear thing! She will turn up presently." Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The band played a popular waltz; upon the beach below people were bathing; the sea displayed the many twinkling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets. "Jolly, isn’t it?" said Posy. "Very." "But you don’t look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never do look very jolly. And I have wondered—why." She looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, anxious to put him at ease, anxious also to peer beneath an impassive surface, to find out "things" concerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently, had not brought with it a very delirious happiness. "Shall I tell you?" he asked, in a voice that trembled oddly. "Shall I let myself go for once? Ought I?" Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was not in sight. She might not appear for half an hour. "Yes; please tell me." He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable might hazard the conjecture that he had told it before, perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By hinting at this we have somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader, who must bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to entertain such suspicions. "I don’t look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don’t feel jolly. Perhaps you think that a man ought to disguise his feelings when he’s with a charming young lady. Well, I can’t. I’m too honest. It was a shock just now meeting you, because you stand for everything I want and can’t get." The inflections of his voice far more than the actual words challenged her interest. Obviously, he was capable of feeling, and she had deemed him cold. He continued more calmly, subtly conveying to her the impression that he was suppressing his emotions on her account.