They had passed the High Street by now and were trudging up the long white road to Cone Head. Over the point the wind raged furiously, it snatched at their skirts and undid Milly's curls. "Oh! oh!" she gasped. Elizabeth laughed, but her laughter was caught up and blown away before it could reach the children; Joan only knew that she was laughing by her open mouth. "It's glorious!" shouted Joan. "I want to hit it back!" Elizabeth battled her way towards an overhanging rock. "Sit here," she motioned; the rock sheltered them, and now they could hear themselves speak. "This is hateful," said Milly. "When I'm famous I shall never do this sort of thing." "Oh, Miss Rodney," exclaimed Joan, "look at that sail!" "I have been looking at it ever since we sat down--I think I should like to be under it." "Yes, going, going, going, you don't know and you don't care where--just anywhere, so long as it isn't here." "Already?" Elizabeth murmured. "Already what?" "Nothing. Did I say already?" "Yes." "Then I was thinking aloud." She looked at the child curiously; she had taught the girls now for about two years, yet she was not even beginning to understand Joan. Milly was reading made easy. Delicate, spoilt by her father and entirely self-centred; yet she was a good enough child as children go, easier far to manage than the elder girl. Milly was not stupid either. She played the violin astonishingly well for a girl of ten. Elizabeth knew that the little man who taught her thought that she had genius. Milly was easy enough, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Elizabeth suspected that she'd always get it. Milly wanted music and more music. When she played her face ceased to look fretful, it became attentive, animated, almost beautiful. This then was Milly's problem, solved already; music, applause, admiration, Elizabeth could see it all, but Joan?--Joan intrigued her.