'I don't believe he can paint the sea!'
But in desperation he makes a final dash for her patronage, probably, poor man, being hard up.
So he painted a stretch of hot brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand,
And a handsome pavilion for the band.
Not a trace of the water to be seen,
Except one faint little streak of green.
'What a perfectly exquisite picture!' said she,
'The very image of the sea!'"
Lorraine laughed.
"No one can accuse Tangy Point of pavilions and big hotels! We seem quite alone in the world, up on these cliffs. I haven't seen a solitary person since we left the village."
"Which remark has instantly conjured up somebody. Look on the shore below us—no, to the left, down there. I see the flutter of a feminine skirt—yes, and masculine trousers too! He's getting out of a boat, and going to speak to her. Actually a kiss! How touching! They don't know that there are spectators on the cliffs. We must be hundreds of feet above them. They look like specks!"
"I brought the field-glasses," said Lorraine, opening her satchel. "It brings that couple as close and clear as possible. Why, I know that grey costume and that crimson toque. It's Madame Bertier, as large as life! Look for yourself. Carina!"
Margaret Lindsay readjusted the glasses to her sight and focused them on the figures below.
"There's not a doubt about it!" she pronounced. "I can almost hear her broken English! Who's the man?"