Point beyond point they saw stretching westward to Land's End, dim and dark beyond a rose-flushed sea.
"Isn't it clear," said Nan. "You can see the cliff villages ever so far along ... Newlyn, Mousehole, Clement's Island off it—and the point of Lamorna."
Barry said "We'll go to Land's End by the coast road to-morrow, shan't we, not the high road?"
"Oh, the coast road, yes. It's about twice the distance, with the ups and downs, and you can't ride all the way. But we'll go by it."
For a moment they stood side by side, looking westward over the bay.
Nan said, "Aren't you glad you came?"
"I should say so!"
His answer came, quick and emphatic. There was a pause after it. Nan suddenly turned on him the edge of a smile.
Barry did not see it. He was not looking at her, nor over the bay, but in front of him, to where Gerda, a thin little upright form, moved bare-legged along the shining causeway to the moat.
Nan's smile flickered out. The sunset tides of rose flamed swiftly over her cheeks, her neck, her body, and receded as sharply, as if someone had hit her in the face. Her pause, her smile, had been equivalent, as she saw them, to a permission, even to an invitation. He had turned away unnoticing, a queer, absent tenderness in his eyes, as they followed Gerda ... Gerda ... walking light-footed up the wet causeway.... Well, if he had got out of the habit of wanting to make love to her, she would not offer him chances again. When he got the habit back, he must make his own chances as best he could.