He half hesitated, and then, as if scorning an equivocation, made a hasty gesture over her shoulder and said bluntly, “No, I came over the cliff.” “Down the cliff?” she repeated incredulously. “Yes,” he said, glancing at his clothes; “it was a rough scramble, but the goats showed me the way.” “And you were up on the bluff all the time?” she went on curiously. “Yes. You see--I”--he stopped suddenly at what seemed to be the beginning of a prearranged and plausible explanation, as if impatient of its weakness or hypocrisy, and said briefly, “Yes, I was there.” Like most women, more observant of his face and figure, she did not miss this lack of explanation. He was a very good-looking man of middle age, with a thin, proud, high-bred face, which in a country of bearded men had the further distinction of being smoothly shaven. She had never seen any one like him before. She thought he looked like an illustration of some novel she had read, but also somewhat melancholy, worn, and tired. “Won't you come in and rest yourself?” she said, motioning to the cabin. “Thank you,” he said, still half absently. “Perhaps I'd better. It may be some time yet before they come.” She led the way to the cabin, entered the living room--a plainly furnished little apartment between the bedroom and the kitchen--pointed to a large bamboo armchair, and placed a bottle of whiskey and some water on the table before him. He thanked her again very gently, poured out some spirits in his glass, and mixed it with water. But when she glanced towards him again he had apparently risen without tasting it, and going to the door was standing there with his hand in the breast of his buttoned frock coat, gazing silently towards the sea. There was something vaguely historical in his attitude--or what she thought might be historical--as of somebody of great importance who had halted on the eve of some great event at the door of her humble cabin. His apparent unconsciousness of her and of his surroundings, his preoccupation with something far beyond her ken, far from piquing her, only excited her interest the more. And then there was such an odd sadness in his eyes. “Are you anxious for your folks' coming?” she said at last, following his outlook. “I--oh no!” he returned, quickly recalling himself, “they'll be sure to come--sooner or later. No fear of that,” he added, half smilingly, half wearily.