A sly-eyed, freckled youth, who whistled again, drew back, clicked the shutter of the camera he carried, and went on, laughing.
"A pretty picture," he said contemptuously.
Bertie awoke with the faint whistle in his ears—woke to find Estelle's ruffled head close against his own. He sat up, wondering how long he had been asleep.
The freckled stranger was visible just dipping down to the steep path which led to the sea.
"I hope he did not see us. Good Lord! I hope he did not see us!"
Estelle woke too, coming from sleep as a child does, rose-flushed, blinking, rubbing her eyes.
"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day."
"Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him.
He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of passion. It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets and others cages?
Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless certainty of finding another capture.