“It’s not the same frock—but it’s the nearest I can do.”
She came up to the car, and once again over the head of the puppy their eyes met.
“I’ve been looking,” she said steadily, “for the real thing. I don’t think I’ve found it—I know I have.”
“My dear!” he stammered hoarsely. “Oh! my dear dream girl.”
“Take me back to the cliff, Desmond,” she whispered. “Take me back to our cliff.”
And an outraged puppy, bouncing off the running-board on to a stray fir-cone, viewed the proceedings of the next five minutes with silent displeasure.
| XI | A Glass of Whisky |