CHAPTER VII
READING THE HAND
The moon was now shining, now obscured. A capricious, gusty wind played fantastic tricks with dark clouds across its face. But by the time the eastern end of the sea wall was reached the Goddess of Night had risen clear; was shining brightly. She silvered and lighted up the rippling waters: jewelling it as only the moon can.
"Shall we rest for a few minutes?"
The suggestion was Masters'. Not that he was tired. But he had that on his mind to unload, which he felt would be easier of utterance sitting down.
They sat. After an awkward interval—she was afraid to help him—he spoke again. Not without difficulty. Love-making in his novels he had found the easiest part of his writing. He was finding reality a steed of a totally different colour.
In an imaginative man it is possible for imagination to be more real than reality; just as a painting may give a truer impression than a photograph. To Masters, just now, reality seemed frigid and limited. He felt himself bound; tied down to—and by—hard-and-fast lines.
Then again there was the horrible uncertainty: he was not sure. It was necessary to feel his way. He had heard her laugh once. He did not need a second edition of that—with himself filling the rôle of laughee. He had no desire to figure as a larger-sized ass than was possible. Putting stripes on a donkey does not make a zebra of it. He said slowly:
"I have been here, to Wivernsea, regularly for years past. Have sat on this seat scores and scores of times. Now—I shall never forget Wivernsea or this seat."
That was his heavily-shod method of feeling his way; of nearly putting his foot into it. She afforded him no fragment of assistance; being a woman, of course help was not to be expected of her. Woman is an enigma; sympathetic to the point of soft-as-silk, heart bleeding; yet there are times when she finds pleasure in a man's agony. Masters' speech simply elicited the query: