Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that he actually saw it.
He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do so.
Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who has to be kept happy and amused.
Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.
He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.
Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.
Ronnie's eyes left the ripples, and wandered cautiously up and down the shore.
The beach was deserted. No moving figures dotted the esplanade. Helen and he would have been alone, had it not been for one tiresome man who sat reading on the next seat to theirs. He looked like a superior valet or upper footman, in a bowler and a black morning coat. He was just out of earshot; but his presence prevented Ronnie from feeling himself alone with Helen, and increased the careful caution with which he took his bearings.
At last he felt the moment had arrived to stop Helen's well-meant attempts at amusing him.
The man on the other seat was a dozen yards off to the right. Helen sat quite close to him on the left. He turned his back on the other seat and looked earnestly into his wife's face.