An hour later she put the last touch on it, yawned, stretched and looked up. Mrs. Brewster had tactfully stolen away. Below the fortress wall the sands were slowly darkening into lavender as they had yesterday and the shadow of the wall no longer gave her shelter. Time to pack up and go home.
But with her paints packed, her box strapped neatly, she perched on the wall to watch again that relentless tide. First the darkening of the sand. One could not say at just what instant the lavender began to gleam with moisture, at what precise second one noted water seeping into this hollow and that, at what tick of the watch the hollows joined, ran into each other, became larger, ran into a hundred thin, continuous streams across the wide expanse of sand.
Someone was coming up the steps, a man with thick brown hair uncovered, with American plus fours.
“Miss Wanstead?” asked Betsey’s Robert.
Cynthia nodded, then glanced back at the sands below, and gasped. Where an instant before had been wet sand with a few thin streams across it a dozen rushing rivers now flowed, joining swiftly into a relentless, heaving sea.
“Frightening, isn’t it?” said Betsey’s Robert. “We saw it rise like that two days ago. That’s why I’m here. I know how dangerous it is and I want to thank you for bringing Betsey back yesterday, you and Miss Brewster.”
“Oh,” murmured Cynthia. “It ... it wasn’t anything.” Then she laughed. “I mean, of course, it was a lot. Only she would have got back. ...”
“She says she wouldn’t. Of course she could have stayed there eight or nine hours.”
“Or you could have sent for her in a boat,” suggested the more practical Cynthia.
“Anyway, I’m tremendously grateful.” He sat down on the wall beside her. “Imposing, isn’t it?” He gestured toward the great abbey behind them. “One of the most imposing sites in all the world, and combined with what man has done to it, it’s stupendous. You’re an artist, aren’t you?”