Katherine and Philip lay, for a long time, saying very little, listening to the gentle hiss of the water, watching the line, beyond the rocks, where the sea was suddenly deep blue, feeling the sun upon their faces, and the little breeze that, once and again, with a sudden gesture of merriment ruffled the faces of the golden pools with a flurry of grey splashes and shadows. They ate their sandwiches and saffron buns and drank their ginger-beer, which resembled hot-soap-and-water: Katherine waited. She knew that Philip had something to say to her, that he had brought her here with some purpose, and she seemed to know also that that gentle sunny hour of the late morning was to be the last moment in some stage in her life. Her first meeting with him, his proposal to her, her talk afterwards with her mother, her coming to Garth with him, his confession at Rafiel, their first quarrel yesterday—all these had been stages in her growth. She waited now with a struggle, a maturity that had been far from her experience a year ago. He began at last, holding her hand covered by both of his, searching her eyes with his, very grave; she saw with a little loving smile to herself that he intended to be of an immense seriousness, that his sense of humour was very far away. He began as though he were carrying through the most tremendous business of his life—and a sparrow, perched on the water’s edge, seemed to watch his gravity with a twitter of superior amusement. “Do you mind my talking now a little? There’s something I’ve got to say.” “It’s a beautiful place for talking. There’s no Aunt Aggie ... only one sparrow to overhear us.” “But it’s really important—terribly important. It’s simply this—that last night was a crisis. I’m never going back to Garth again.” Katherine laughed, but her eyes were suddenly frightened. “My dear Phil ... What do you mean?” “No, I’m not—I mean—at least not until certain things have happened. You’re not going back either—” “_I’m_ not going back?” “No, not as Miss Katherine Trenchard—one day as Mrs. Philip Mark, perhaps.” Katherine drew her hand from his, sat up, looked out to the deep blue line of sea, said, at last, quietly: “Now please, Philip, explain the joke. The afternoon’s too lovely to be wasted.” “There is no joke. I’m perfectly serious. I can’t stand it any longer. _I cannot stand it_—and when I say ‘it’ I mean the family, their treatment of me, their dislike of me, their determination to swallow me up in their feather-bed and make an end of me—the whole long engagement; _you’re_ suffering. _I’m_ suffering. You were wretched yesterday—so was I. When you’re wretched I could burn the whole family, Garth and Glebeshire and all included and waste no pity whatever.” But Katherine only laughed: