Hamel strolled down the terrace steps and wandered for a time in the gardens behind the house. Here, in the shelter of the great building, he found himself suddenly in an atmosphere of springtime. There were beds of crocuses and hyacinths, fragrant clumps of violets, borders of snowdrops, masses of primroses and early anemones. He slowly climbed one or two steep paths until he reached a sort of plateau, level with the top of the house. The flowers here grew more sparsely, the track of the salt wind lay like a withering band across the flower-beds. The garden below was like a little oasis of colour and perfume. Arrived at the bordering red brick wall, he turned around and looked along the narrow road which led to the sea. There was no sign of Mr. Fentolin’s return. Then to his left he saw a gate open and heard the clamour of dogs. Esther appeared, walking swiftly towards the little stretch of road which led to the village. He hurried after her. “Unsociable person!” he exclaimed, as he caught her up. “Didn’t you know that I was longing for a walk?” “How should I read your thoughts?” she answered. “Besides, a few minutes ago I saw you on the terrace, talking to mother. I am only going as far as the village.” “May I come?” he asked. “I have business there myself.” She laughed. “There are nine cottages, three farmhouses, and a general shop in St. David’s,” she remarked. “Also about fifteen fishermen’s cottages dotted about the marsh. Your business, I presume, is with the general shop?” He shook his head, falling into step with her. “What I want,” he explained, “is to find a woman to come in and look after me at the Tower. Your servant who valets me has given me two names.” Something of the lightness faded from her face. “So you have quite made up your mind to leave us?” she asked slowly. “Mother wasn’t able to persuade you to stay?” He shook his head. “She was very kind,” he said, “but there are really grave reasons why I feel that I must not accept Mr. Fentolin’s hospitality any longer. I had,” he went on, “a very interesting talk with your mother.” She turned quickly towards him. The slightest possible tinge of additional colour was in her cheeks. She was walking on the top of a green bank, with the wind blowing her skirts around her. The turn of her head was a little diffident, almost shy. Her eyes were asking him questions. At that moment she seemed to him, with her slim body, her gently parted lips and soft, tremulous eyes, almost like a child. He drew a little nearer to her. “I told your mother,” he continued, “all that I have told you, and more. I told her, dear, that I cared for you, that I wanted you to be my wife.” She was caught in a little gust of wind. Both her hands went up to her hat; her face was hidden. She stepped down from the bank. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said quietly. “Why not?” he demanded. “It was the truth.”