The groups looked in at the shop-windows until they were hungry; then, carrying bulging paper-bags, they retraced their steps and, sitting in sheltered corners among the rocks, looking out beyond the island to the open sea, they ate stolidly until the bags were empty. Later the tide came up and restored the beach to order, carrying out, even beyond the breakwater of the island, all the litter of paper bags, banana skins, orange peel, glass and tin—all mercifully washed outwards to the horizon until they became waterlogged and sank to the ocean floor.
On Easter Monday the ladies walked to a distant and secluded part of the coast and were happy all the morning in avoiding the rush of holiday-makers. From afar they watched the approach of the thronged steamers, and speculated idly as to the probable number of boatloads that would land. Because it was good for the watermen they were glad that the steamers came.
As they were leaving the house after dinner, a weary lady had approached them. Behind her stood another woman, equally weary, and a pale-faced, meek-eyed man. “Excuse me,” the first weary lady had said, addressing Miss Dorothea, “but will you be so very kind as to tell me where we can find the stocks?” she spoke with nervous eagerness. “You see, we are only here for the day.”
Miss Dorothea had directed her to the stocks just around the corner, and had followed the Blue Lady down the alley. But she was not to escape so easily. “Excuse me once more,” said the weary stranger, somewhat out of breath with running after her, “but is there anything else to be seen in Draeth; you see, we are only here for the day.”
On the following Monday, as they were walking up from the sands at dinner time, they were laughing over the Easter reminiscences, and comparing the beauty and stillness around them with the bustle and throng of the week before. Then they began to speak of Mrs. Radford. They found it very difficult to avoid her, although they had not responded to her early advances. Whenever they left the house they were conscious that her eyes followed them until they were out of sight; she stood, barely concealed by the curtains of the window, to mark their return.
The Blue Lady was growing impatient; the unceasing spying annoyed her.
The Brown Lady saw not only the humour, but also the pathos, of Mrs. Radford’s actions. “But think, Margaret,” she said; “it isn’t real ill-nature that makes her so. It’s just a sort of jealousy; we have so much, and she has so little.”
“I don’t agree with you. She has a husband and a child, and money enough to enable her to live without effort.”
“Yes, she has all that, but she lacks absolutely the joy of living. You yourself possess this in so high a degree that you scarcely allow for its absence in others.”