They rounded a curve in the path then and Judy cried out at the beauty of the view. Far below them the sea pounded and foamed. The cliffs fell away with a sheer drop that gave her an uneasy sensation of falling, for an instant, and the wind buffeted them with such violence that Chip took her by the arm and drew her back from the path that ran dangerously close to the edge. For a moment, speech was impossible.
“Can’t we sit somewhere,” she cried, when she could get her breath, “out of the wind?”
He pointed to a great bowlder that overhung the path a dozen yards ahead, and they struggled toward it and crept into its shelter. There the wind rushed by them but did not disturb them.
“That’s better,” she said. “I can talk now without shouting.”
“And I can smoke,” said Chip, filling a pipe, “which is a great help.”
“I said a few minutes ago,” she told him quietly, “that there was nothing I would hesitate to tell you about myself. I mean to prove, now, that I’m as good as my word. I can’t see that we gain anything by … not speaking out to each other. We’re both very inclined to be reserved, and to-day … to-day that sort of thing seems to me very petty and artificial.”
He turned and looked at her, smiling.
“You could never be either petty or artificial.”
“Yes, I could. I have been. But I don’t mean to be so with you. What will you think of me, Chip, if I tell you that I know … yes, I know … that you need me … badly, and that I believe … I know … that I need you.”
Her voice was unsteady, in spite of her courage.