It was an afternoon of west-country weather, and the very spray was misty and soft as it curled upwards from a grey, still sea. This time there was no high wind to contend with, as on the day when they had walked the length of the sea-wall, and she had told him about her life in London and the story of Clarence Isbister.
He could discern her slim figure braced against the wall as he crossed the sand-dunes and came towards her.
When she turned her face to him, he saw with a shock, that was not altogether surprise, that it was pale and blurred with crying and that her eyes looked as though she had been weeping all night.
The faint elusive beauty, such as it was, had left her face altogether; but her voice, veiled with exhaustion, retained all the quality that gave it charm.
She said, with rather tremulous directness:
"I thought that perhaps you'd come. I was hoping you would."
"Then I'm glad I came," said Sir Julian. "Are you warm enough, sitting here?"
"Yes, I think so. I don't want to walk, I'm tired."
It was obvious that she was very much tired indeed.
"I am very sorry," said Julian simply, and his tone implied a deeper regret than the compassion that he felt for her evident fatigue.