"For every hour I work to-day, I shall waste two to-morrow," he said; and taking a volume of poetry from the shelf, he strode down to the beach.
Other people besides Mona knew of "Castle Maclean"; perhaps some people had even discovered her predilection for it. Dudley reached the spot in about half the time that she would have taken, and scrambled up the huge uneven steps. There, comfortably ensconced at the top, sat the subject of his thoughts; a sketch-book open on her lap, and a well-used, battered paint-box at her side. Dudley was too much of an artist to dabble in colours himself, but he knew one paint-box from another, and he was duly impressed.
"I beg your pardon!" he said. "So you know this place?"
"It is my private property," she said with serene dignity, very different from her bright, alert manner in the shop,—"Castle Maclean."
He bowed low. "Shall I disturb you if I stay?"
"Not in the least." She put her head on one side, and critically examined her sky. "Not unless your hat absolutely comes between me and my subject."
"Change in the weather, is not it?"
"Has it not been glorious!" she said enthusiastically, laying down her brush. "This rocky old coast was in its element. It was something to live for, to see those great waves dashing themselves into gigantic fountains of spray."
"You don't mean to say you were down here?"
"Every minute that I could spare. Why not? A wetting does one no harm in a primitive world like this."