A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain. Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer, peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come.
From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom.
“The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.”
Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands.
“We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see that.”
“Why?”—suspiciously.
“Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been wrecked by love.”
Captain Rage groaned.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s too awful. But I’m thankful you see my point. Conceive some cheerful little playground—Honolulu, for instance—peopled by an equal number of youths and maidens, all reasonably attractive and all proof against affection.”
“I can’t,” said Cicely Voile. “It’s too—too dazzling. Never mind. Go on.”