She stretched out a long arm and pointed. Away in the distance, on the summit of a line of pebbled shore, standing, as it seemed, sheer over the sea, was a little black speck.
“That,” she said, “is the Tower.”
He changed his position and leaned out of the window.
“Well, it’s a queer little place,” he remarked. “It doesn’t look worth quarrelling over, does it?”
“And that,” she went on, directing his attention to the hill, “is Mr. Fentolin’s home, St. David’s Hall.”
For several moments he made no remark at all. There was something curiously impressive in that sudden sweep up from the sea-line; the strange, miniature mountain standing in the middle of the marshes, with its tree-crowned background; and the long, weather-beaten front of the house turned bravely to the sea.
“I never saw anything like it,” he declared. “Why, it’s barely a quarter of a mile from the sea, isn’t it?”
“A little more than that. It is a strangely situated abode, isn’t it?”
“Wonderful!” he agreed, with emphasis. “I must study the geological formation of that hill,” he continued, with interest. “Why, it looks almost like an island now.”
“That is because of the floods,” she told him. “Even at high tide the creeks never reach so far as the back there. All the water you see stretching away inland is flood water—the result of the storm, I suppose. This is where you get out,” she concluded, rising to her feet.