Only a dull man would have called Lettice Nevern beautiful, but the dullest could not have thought her plain. She had, in its most dainty shape, that perfect imperfection known as prettiness. Distractingly pretty, most women called her; and men who were not thought easy of distraction had justified the label. She had a figure a sculptor would have prized, full, buoyant, flexible, with the grace of splendid health in every line. It was a consolation, Maurice reflected, to be able to admire an acquisition, even though one did not desire it. She had, too, an admirable temper, an eye for what became her, a dozen interests in the open air. That made for mutual accommodation, and he could imagine nothing in her which could lessen his respect. His ignorance of women was based on too wide an acquaintance to be neglected, yet he felt sure that Lettice was no coquette. And despite the gaiety with which her face was so charmingly inscribed, she could endure quietness--enjoy it even, as four summers at Ballindra proved. On the whole he felt cause to thank Providence, as a man might, able to nurse his damaged limbs after an accident, that the catastrophe was, for him, no worse. He was beginning to wonder what it might be for her. They raced home under more canvas than one who knew the shore winds of Ballindra would have cared to carry; but neither, for diverse reasons, was inclined to prudence, and the wake they blazed across that blue-black surface was a joy to see. Caragh's right hand went to and fro, as though it held a bolting horse, and the sheet wore a deep red furrow about his palm. Lettice kept her eyes on her work, for, as they felt the tide-race, it took some little coaxing through the stiffer gusts to hold the boat's nose on the Head in front of them. The wind that swept the sea was channelled by the contour of the cliffs into blustering draughts that streamed from the deep cut coombes, with spaces almost of calm between them. Slantwise across these lay their course, and as the boat leapt, like a hurt thing, at each fresh blow, Maurice could feel the quick restraint of the girl's guiding fingers. As his arm gave with the gust, the pressure of hers upon the tiller seemed to answer it, and that sensation of swift divination and subtle responsiveness between his hand and hers was worth the risk of an upset, and Maurice only wished it were less impossible to discover if Miss Nevern shared it. He supposed not. Women, so time had taught him, were seldom sensitive to the unexpected. As they cleared the Head, and the mystery of the river lay in the dark hills before them, Caragh came again to his senses. "Down helm!" he said. She woke out of her reverie, but with her hand hard over. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "Shorten sail," he said, letting go the halyards. "You're very cautious," she flouted.