But Emil, muttering something about returning the fisherman's boat, disappeared in the twilight and Rachel, stumbling like one who walks in a dream, accompanied Simon to the house. "The rain won't harm you, my love," he was saying as they gained the porch, "if you change your clothing at once. It's remaining in damp garments that's the imprudent thing." As they crossed the threshold Rachel caught his hand. "Simon, I--I want to speak to you." And half dragging, half pushing him, she urged him into the front room. This room was large and shadowy, with a row of French windows commanding a view of the sea. The shades were drawn and the light from a small fire on the hearth sparkled on a glass dome beneath which were placed specimens of sea moss and shells. The dome stood at one end of a long table and a candelabrum hung with glass prisms at the other end; above one candle hung a red spark,--the wick needed snuffing. The room was damp. As she spoke Rachel, passing her arm behind her, clasped the glass knob of the door. "Simon--I don't want to stay here any longer." He confronted her in surprise: "Not stay here any longer? Why, Rachel, you astonish me; I thought you loved the sea." "So I do--but this coast--it oppresses me. Simon, I want to go back to the city at once, do you understand,--at once; can't we move to-morrow?" "But you're irrational, my dear. In fact the doctor whom I saw only yesterday, counselled just the opposite course. He said to me, speaking of you, 'the sea air is what she needs; she grew up in such a climate. You keep her on the shore until late fall!" For a moment Rachel dropped her head against the panels of the door and closed her eyes; then raising her head, she looked intently at her husband: "Simon, you asked Mr. St. Ives to come here; you asked him without consulting me and now--I want to go away." For an instant he studied her, then he crossed to her side and took her hand. "My dear Rachel," he said, "I thought perhaps you understood without anything being said. Rachel, believe me, I have not the feeling now about your friendship with St. Ives that I once had. That feeling of jealousy,--for it was jealousy--I do not deny it--was degrading to us both, but particularly it was insulting to you. And during your illness it left me; thank Heaven, it left me," he repeated. "And now be generous--don't take from me the happiness I feel. You think I objected to your being out with him, but when I saw you in the boat, I was conscious only of a serene friendship for St. Ives." A flash of firelight illumined his face and she saw to her surprise that his usually enigmatic eyes held a look that completely transformed him. The explanation she had intended to make died on her lips. With a bewildered gesture she turned as if to leave the room; and at that moment they were interrupted. There was a knock, and the caretaker questioningly opened the door.