Sandbeach is a rising watering-place on the south coast. It has been rising for the last ten years, yet, in the opinion of its inhabitants, it has not yet reached that pitch of elevation to which its merits entitle it. The guide-book emphatically declares that it is healthy, pleasantly situated, within easy distance of London, and inexpensive. But for all this eulogy, Sandbeach remains unpopular. A sand and shingle beach curved between headlands of crumbling chalk, a stone-faced esplanade with wooden shelters like dolls' houses, three or four dozen Queen Anne residences fronting some public gardens--a courtesy term, surely--such is Sandbeach. In the rear huddle a score or more of untidy cottages. These represent the original village of thirty years back. There is the usual monster hotel, invariably "under entirely new management," for each season it succeeds in bankrupting its unhappy proprietor. There is also an aggressively ornate band-stand, where play local musicians who seemingly vie with their predecessors in the staleness and worthlessness of their music. Golf-links, tennis-courts, bicycle-track, all are there, but all are more or less deserted. Sandbeach possesses every attraction of the modern seaside "resort," yet people, for some inscrutable reason, decline to fill its hotel or to occupy its apartments. Even in what is facetiously termed its "season" it is but sparsely populated. 'Tis a marine Doctor Fell, and no man knoweth the reason of its unpopularity. Olive it was who had selected this dismal spot in which to pass her honeymoon. Her one desire was to have solitude--no solitude _à deux_, but solitude absolute and complete. Her husband in no way interfered with her desire. He sauntered about smoking endless cigarettes, and scanning such samples of modern French fiction as came to hand. Every few days he ran up to town. What he did there Olive knew not, nor did she trouble herself to inquire. But she did notice that he invariably appeared highly delighted with himself on returning from these jaunts. Left to her own devices, Olive amused herself as best she could. But she thought more of Mallow that was consistent with her own peace of mind. "Olive," said Angus, one day at luncheon, "I have paid your first year's income in to your account." "Thank you, that is very kind of you," replied Olive, cheerfully; "but was it necessary to pay in the whole amount at once?" "No; I need only pay it quarterly; but as I wished to be perfectly free to handle the money, I thought it best to get it done." "Is it about the money that you have been so often up to London?" "Well, yes; I have been seeing after it." "And how is Mr. Dimbal?" "I have not seen him. Mr. Dimbal has nothing to do with the business now, save in so far as your income is concerned. My affairs are in the hands of another firm of lawyers." Olive was vaguely troubled.