Clifford was overwhelmed with joy at this unexpected piece of good fortune, and he promised at once to give her message.
“By the bye,” he said, just as he was about to start off in the direction of Courtstairs, “are you at liberty to tell me what she was doing here? Was she visiting the Bostals?”
“You mustn’t ask me any more,” she said. “There’s things one mustn’t so much as guess at,” she added, enigmatically, as she retreated to her own doorway.
Clifford did not trouble his head about these hints. It was enough for him that Nell was now within his reach. And he set off for Courtstairs with a set purpose in his mind.
The walk along the straight marsh road, with the wind in his face, and the sea a misty blue line on his right hand, seemed never-ending. Clifford had no eyes for the effect of sunset on the chalk cliff to his right, for the picturesque little farm perched up high above the water’s edge, as he drew near to Beach Bay.
Past the Shooter’s Arms, the wayside inn which happily forms the limit of the explorations of the devastating hordes from the East End of London with which benevolent railway companies have ruined one of the pleasantest spots in England. Past the tiny village of Beach, with its picturesque, steep miniature street, and its hideous new Convalescent Home and waste of brand-new tea-garden. Up on the Beach road, in full sight of the sea and of the fishing fleet coming in upon the breast of the tide. Clifford saw nothing, thought of nothing but how to save a yard, a minute, so that he might lose no time in reaching his darling.
He had to inquire for Paradise Hill, which proved to be one of the innumerable back streets of mean houses of which the town chiefly consists. He found No. 45 easily enough. It was one of a row of small, yellow brick houses, with bay-windows on the ground floor, which would formerly have been called cottages, but which, since the School Board brought in pretension, have become “villas.”
Clifford’s heart sank a little as he asked for “Miss Claris.” This stuffy little dwelling, after the fresh air of the rambling inn by the shore, must be a torture to the girl.
The woman who opened the door looked at him sulkily.
“I’ll see if she’s in,” she said, as if the proffered service was a great condescension.