“Plank? Oh yes.”
He smiled to remember the battering blows rained upon the ramparts of society by the master of Black Fells.
But the smile faded; and, glancing at him, the girl was surprised to see the subtle change in his face—the white worn look, then the old listless apathy which, all at once to her, hinted of something graver than preoccupation.
“Are we near the sea?” he asked.
“Very near. Only a moment to the top of this hill.... Now look!”
There lay the sea—the same grey-blue crawling void that had ever fascinated and repelled him—always wrinkled, always in flat monotonous motion, spreading away, away to the sad world's ends.
“Full of menace—always,” he said, unconscious that he had spoken aloud.
“The sea!”
He spoke without turning: “The sea is a relentless thing for a man to fight.... There are other tides more persistent than the sea, but like it—like it in its menace.”
His face seemed thinner, older; she noticed his cheek bones for the first time. Then, meeting her eyes, youth returned with a laugh and a touch of colour; and, without understanding exactly how, she was aware, presently, that they had insensibly slipped back to their light badinage and gay inconsequences—back to a footing which, strangely, seemed to be already an old footing, familiar, pleasant, and natural to return to.