The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply.... But to-night it seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. “It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. “It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for... three stools, three desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.” Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, even now?” “I’m old—I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.” Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. “Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune....” He was gone. XI Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had been waiting for this moment all day. “Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. “Thank goodness, the long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly’s whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells’ gate. Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, darling?” “Yes, Stanley.” He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. “Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. “Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?”