Marion walked idly about the headland, pacing to and fro along the grassy stretch. From time to time her eyes swept the sunlit Channel. Presently she climbed to a higher ridge of the slope and sat down on the stone ledge that gave a view of the harbour.
A soft haze clung to the river mouth, and through it the spikes of the masts rose with a gentle motion. Suddenly Marion sprang to her feet and ran along a few yards to a higher point of the headland. Among the small fishing boats of the Garth men she could clearly discern the lines of a larger vessel. With her hand shading her eyes she studied the rig of the newcomer. Men were still busy on her decks. She had clearly just sailed into port.
As Marion stood, there was the sound of approaching footsteps on the hillside. She dropped her hand, turned, and remained motionless, her fingers plucking at the fold of her gown. A tall, bronzed figure, walking with a seaman's roll, was bearing round the cliff.
A wave of colour ran over Marion's face as the figure approached, and for a few seconds she struggled with a wild desire to turn and flee.
Then she heard her own voice speaking, and only a slight tremor, a deeper tone, betrayed her feeling.
'You always were a very sudden person, Roger,' she said.
Roger tossed his seaman's cap on the ground and gently took her hands. The dark eyes, with gold lights dancing in the brown, looked merrily into the steady grey ones. The look sobered, and Marion's glance fell. She did not see the brown eyes run over her face and shining, red-gold hair.
For a long second they stood thus. Then Roger suddenly dropped his face into the hands he held.
With a tremulous laugh Marion withdrew her fingers and lightly touched the dark head.
'There's that patch of hair as stiff as ever,' she said.