And soon, as he walked aimlessly onward, he was away from the town altogether. To him it was a hateful place—with its contrarieties, its disappointments, its distracting problems in human nature. When he turned to look at it, it was like some vast and dusky pit, with a dull, red glow shining over it from its innumerable fires. But here, as he went on again, all was peace. The silver moonlight shimmered on the water. There was not a whisper or murmur along these lofty and solitary cliffs. A cold wind blew from the north, coming over the bare uplands; but it brought no sound of any bird or beast. His shadow was his sole companion—vague and indefinite on the grass, but sharper and blacker on the grey and frosted road. He was alone, and he wished to be alone; and if certain phrases from the _Claire Fontaine_ would come following and haunting him—_jai perdu ma maîtresse—sans l’ avoir mérité—pour un bouquet de roses—que je lui refusai_—he strove to repel them; he would have none of them; nor any remembrance of what was past and gone. The world was sweet to him here, because he was alone with the sea, and the shore, and the mystic splendour of those shining heavens; and because he seemed to have shaken himself free from the enmities and the treacheries and ingratitudes that lay festering in yonder town. CHAPTER VII. RENEWING IS OF LOVE. Next morning broke bright and clear, for the north wind had blown freshly all the night, and swept the smoke of the town right out to sea, where it lay along the horizon as a soft saffron-reddish cloud. Accordingly the sky overhead was of a summer-like blue; and the sea was of a shining green, save where it grew opaque and brown as it neared the shore; while the welcome sunlight was everywhere abroad, giving promise of a cheerful day, even now in December. And Vin Harris was standing at a window of the hotel, looking absently out on the wide and empty thoroughfares. A waiter brought him a note. He glanced at the handwriting with startled eyes, then tore the envelope open. This was what he read— "Dear Vincent, I wish to speak with you for a moment if you are not engaged. I am going down to the breakwater, and will wait there for a little while. "MAISRIE." He called to the waiter. "When did this come?" "I found it lying on the hall table, sir—just this minute, sir." He did not waste time on further questions. In a couple of seconds he was outside and had crossed the road; and there, sure enough—far below him—out on the breakwater—was a solitary figure that he instantly recognised. He went quickly down the steps; he did not stay to ask what this might mean, or to prepare himself in any way; as he approached her, all his anxiety was to know if her eyes were kind—or hostile. Well, they were neither; but there was a certain pride in her tone as she spoke. "Vincent, you were angry with me last night. Why?"