“There’s a shower coming,” said Thrale.
They stood quietly and let the sharp spatter of rain beat in their faces, and then the shadow of the storm moved on and the horizon line was clear again.
“That’s a queer cloud out there,” said Eileen. “Is it another shower?”
She pointed to a tiny blur on the far rim of the sea.
“It is queer,” said Thrale. “It’s so precisely like the smoke of a steamer.”
For a few seconds they gazed in intent silence.
“It’s getting bigger,” broke out Eileen, suddenly excited. “What is it, Jasper?”
“I don’t know. I can’t make it out,” he said. He moved away from her and shaded his eyes from the glare of the momentarily cloudless sky.
“I can’t make it out,” he repeated mechanically.
The blur was widening into a grey-black smudge, into a vaguely diffused smear with a darker centre.