"Was that the only alternative?" asked Julian, his voice as matter-of-fact as hers had been throughout.
"There was an aunt, but she had two daughters of her own, and they seemed to think it extremely providential that I could do something for myself. They are very kind, and I generally spend my holidays with them. They live near London."
"You don't like London," Julian affirmed, guided by something in her tone.
"No, not much. However, the aunt's husband got me the offer of a post as shorthand teacher at that big place in Southampton Row, and I went there, and it was a success. I got a lot of private tuition work, and they raised my salary every year, and I actually saved money. That's why I'm here now."
Julian remembered Mark Easter: "She comes here for love of the country, I think."
"But I've never liked any work better than this," said Miss Marchrose warmly, "and I wanted to be in the country. In some ways, I'm happier here than I've been anywhere in my life."
"I'm glad. Only I'm afraid perhaps it's lonely, if you don't know anyone here. Do they make you comfortable at the farm?"
"Very, and I've always wanted to live on a farm."
Julian stopped the car as they came in sight of the shelving declivity of fine, powdery sand, lying in uneven hillocks, with tufts of stiff grasses amongst the boulders.
A broken line of white, flecking the darkness, showed the receding tide.