Roger, who had been walking as in a dream, with his eyes glued to the firs, started. The river had disappeared. The sun came out again and shone instead on drifting billows of mist, like the clouds the angels sit on in the picture-books.
"It is the sea roke," he said; "we must hurry."
"It won't reach Mrs. Stoddart, will it?" said Annette breathlessly, trying to keep up with his large stride. "Damp is so bad for her rheumatism."
"She is all right," he said almost angrily. "They have wraps, and they are half-way home by now. It's my fault. I might have known, if I had had my wits about me, when Dunwich looked like that, the roke would come up with the tide."
He took off his coat and put it on her. Then he drew her arm through his.
"Now," he said peremptorily, "we've got to walk—hard."
All in a moment the mist blotted out everything, and he stopped short instantly.
"It will shift," he said doggedly. "We must wait till it shifts."
He knew well the evil record of that quaggy ground, and of the gleaming, sheening flats—the ruthless oozy flats which tell no tales. The birds which had filled the air with their clamour were silent. There was no sound except the whisper everywhere of lapping water, water stealing in round them on all sides, almost beneath their feet. The sound meant nothing to Annette, but Roger frowned.