Letting her book lie in her lap unopened, Gwen permitted her eyes to dwell upon the scene before her. "It is almost too lovely," she sighed.
Presently some one waved a hand to her from a rock just below. "Do you hear them?" came the question.
"Hear what?" said Gwen, rising to her feet.
"The singing waves," was the reply. "Such a queer, quaint little motive that reminds me of Grieg: only a few notes repeated and repeated with a different accompaniment, so that although it is monotonous there is infinite variety. Do you hear?"
Gwen stepped out upon the flat rock in front of the porch. "I hear," she said. "I have been thinking the motive lovely, but I failed to get the suggestion of Grieg. It is like. Have you made a successful sketch, Mr. Hilary?"
"Would you like to see?"
"I'd like it immensely."
"I'll bring it up."
He came springing up the cliff, and turned his sketch around to show her what he had been doing. "It's just off here." He waved his hand.
"I see; a bit of the Pinnacle and the singing waves curling and rippling around the feet of the rocks. How well you have suggested that movement of the water, those queer circles and sinuous markings. I like the color you find in the rocks. They are not gray at all. Yes, I like it. It is better than the last. What is that other one? May I see it?" He handed her the second canvas he carried. Gwen held it off. A single white-capped wave leaped up from a gray-green sea. One could feel the toss of spray and could catch the pearly light. Gwen observed it long. "I like that, too," she said, "though it's rather more commonplace. It should please the popular taste, but it doesn't touch the first."