But she did not tire easily. It was the difficulty of making their way between and over the boulders of the rock-strewn beach that brought them to a halt. They sat down on a small strip of sand with a rock at their backs, and for a while remained silent, contemplating the scene in quiet appreciation that defied expression and lent itself to the prevailing peace. Out of the warm dusk a few stars gleamed faintly, and upon the stirless air the contented murmuring of the sea as it drew away from the sleeping shore hung reposefully, the wild slumber song which throughout the ages the element which never rests urges upon the land.
As the silence between them lengthened, Brenda Upton became aware that the man beside her moved nearer to her; observed too, when she turned towards him, that he was more intent upon the study of her face than upon the deep swell of the moving waters, the sinister strength and secretiveness of the mountain range that walled and overlooked the bay. He had brought her here to see these things, but he did not look at them himself; he was not after all sharing them with her. A faint resentment stirred her as she met the steady gaze of the indolent eyes; she felt somehow cheated.
“I thought this would move you,” he said in a voice of satisfaction.
“It moves me—yes.” She took up a handful of sand and let it run slowly through her fingers. “And you?” she asked.
Suddenly he smiled. He changed his attitude for a more comfortable position, reclining on the sand on his elbow, with his chin supported on his hand.
“I’m enjoying your enjoyment. That’s enough for me to-night. It’s a fresh sensation; the scenery isn’t. When I first came out here it gripped me—as it grips you. I forgot the time. I missed my dinner.” He laughed at some reminiscence. “That didn’t matter; it was worth it. But I found it impossible to explain what had kept me. It would have spoilt it. You know the fatuous remarks that some people would have made... I could have talked of it to you—you would have understood. There’s something fine about this bit of coast—fine and lonely. People don’t come here much. You see, it’s difficult to get at; there’s no beach, and the rocks scare off bathers. There’s nothing to draw people—except just the rugged beauty of it...”
He broke off, aware of the criticism in her eyes, their look of veiled surprise.
“I don’t believe you understand,” he said doubtfully.
“The love of beauty!” she said. “Oh! yes, I understand that part. It’s the inconsistency that puzzles me.”
“The inconsistency!” he echoed.