I, too, had believed for an instant that I had heard something that was not the wind or the distant children or the smooth sea hissing along the beach. During that golden summer which linked me with the dead, Edward had been wont, in moments of elation, to puff up and down the sands, in artistic representation of a nobby, noisy motor-car. But the dead may play no more, and there was nothing there but the sands and the hot sky and Dorothy.
"You had better let me take you for a run, Dorothy," I said. "The man will drive, and we can talk as we go along."
She nodded gravely, and began pulling on her sandy stockings.
"It did not hurt him," she said inconsequently.
The restraint in her voice pained me like a blow.
"Oh, don't, dear, don't!" I cried, "There is nothing to do but forget."
"I have forgotten, quite," she answered, pulling at her shoe-laces with calm fingers. "It was ten months ago."
We walked up to the front, where the car was waiting, and Dorothy settled herself among the cushions with a little sigh of contentment, the human quality of which brought me a certain relief. If only she would laugh or cry! I sat down by her side, but the man waited by the open door.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, sir," he answered, looking about him in confusion, "I thought I saw a young gentleman with you."