She was heading for a spot she knew of, a quarter of a mile below, where a wooden bridge spanned the river and the sun’s heat poured down unchecked by sheltering trees. Here she proposed to scramble out and bask in the golden warmth.
She had just established herself on a big, sun-warmed boulder when a familiar step sounded on the bridge and Dan Storran’s tall figure emerged into view. He pulled up sharply as he caught sight of her, his face taking on a schoolboy look of embarrassment. Deauville plage, where people bathed in companionable parties and strolled in and out of the water as seemed good to them, was something altogether outside Dan’s ken.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he began, flushing uncomfortably.
Magda waved to him airily.
“You needn’t be. I’m having a sun-bath. You can stay and talk to me if you like. Or are you too busy farming this morning?”
“No, I’m not too busy,” he said slowly.
There was a curious dazzled look in his eyes as they rested on her. Sheathed in the stockingette bathing-suit she wore, every line and curve of her supple body was revealed. Her wet, white limbs gleamed pearl-like in the quivering sunlight. The beauty of her ran through his veins like wine.
“Then come and amuse me!” Magda patted the warm surface of the rock beside her invitingly. “You can give me a cigarette to begin with.”
Storran sat down and pulled out his case. As he held a match for her to light up from, his hand brushed hers and he drew it away sharply. It was trembling absurdly.
He sat silent for a moment or two; then he said with an odd abruptness: