He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck. That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.
The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it a little upward and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent. She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and his right therein was duly paid.
Slowly he rose to his feet; slowly her eyes turned upward to his face. It was ablaze with a great triumph; the fire seemed to spread to her cheeks.
"It's better than I dreamed or hoped," he murmured.
"What? To have peace between us? Yes, it's good."
"I have never seen your face before." She made no answer. "Nor you mine?" he asked.
"Once on Sandy Nab you passed by me. You didn't notice me—but, yes, I saw you." Her eyes were steadily on him now; the flush had ceased to deepen, nay, had receded, but abode still, tingeing the olive of her cheeks.
"I have rendered my homage," he said.
"It is accepted." Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. "And you might have been so cruel to me!" she whispered.
"To you? To you who carry the power of a world in your face?"