"Who is that chap sketching over there on the rocks?"
Gwen glanced seaward. "Oh, that is Mr. Hilary. He is here for the summer, too."
"Queer how a man can like to spend his time doing that sort of thing. I'd never be content to sit around daubing paint on canvas," remarked Mr. Mitchell. "An active life for me," and he lengthened his stride, giving an added spring to his gait.
"No," returned Gwen dreamily, "I shouldn't imagine you could be content to do such things."
Mr. Mitchell glanced down at her with a gratified expression. "I say, Miss Whitridge," he said, "you are appreciative."
Gwen's childlike laugh rang out merrily. There was such smug self satisfaction in his manner. "Thank you," she returned. "I believe I am more thankful for my appreciative faculty than for anything else. For instance, at this present moment I am loving that beautiful tender haze that overspreads the distance, and I am hearing the most delicately lovely motive in that musical murmur of the waves on the beach. You don't always hear it just like that, only when the tide is at a certain point and it is not too rough. Listen." She stopped and Mr. Mitchell obediently halted also.
"They are pretty noisy at night sometimes," he said, "the waves I mean, and they aren't very noisy now, but what their motive is beyond coming in and going out I cannot see." He looked bewildered and half annoyed.
"This will never do," said Gwen to herself. "I mean they sing a little—tune to me," she explained.
Mr. Mitchell visibly brightened. "Oh, yes, now you put it that way I suppose one could fancy something of the kind, but I'm not much for fancies, of that sort, I mean. Of course I take fancies to things—and persons." He gave the girl a swift look.
"This is better," thought Gwen. "I suppose you enjoy solid facts," she said. "I confess I haven't much patience, myself, with visionary people. If it were not for the practical ones we should all be very uncomfortable."