She looked at him almost wistfully.
"To-morrow!" she repeated.
They left London early the next morning and Eleanor, with a face that was almost haggard leaned wearily back in the train and scarcely spoke during the entire trip.
Toward the end of dinner, on the evening of their arrival, Powers threw open the French windows and let in the deep music of the sea. She started to her feet with a strange little cry.
"Hark!"
It was the first sign of her awakening interest in life.
"The tide is coming in," Powers said. "You see the beach is just below the gardens."
She stepped through the window and crossed the lawn. From there a winding path led down to the beach. She never paused until she stood upon the shingle, with her pale, rapt face turned seaward. Powers followed noiselessly close behind. Almost to their feet, the long waves came thundering in, weird and ghostlike. She stood like a statue, her lips parted, her bosom rising and falling quickly under her dinner-gown.
"Listen," she murmured, "it is the old cry, unending, everlasting. Where have I heard it before? Oh, tell me! Tell me!"
"I cannot," he answered. "I would that I could!"