Mr. Rivers was standing, sketch book in hand, on a little beach of pebbles under the shelving, undercut bank, executing with incredible dexterity what looked like meaningless parabolic curves, with a hard lead pencil. His back was turned to her. She jumped down the bank, and, though the crunching of the pebbles under her feet, and the sound of her own voice, affrighted her, managed to pluck up courage to address him.
“I must apologise for troubling you again—but you were so very kind to me before—perhaps you would not mind telling me if there is any—if I could find any accommodation here?”
“No, none!” he replied hastily, without even turning round.
After an appreciable pause he added, unwillingly, “At least—there’s an inn a mile off—about a mile——”
“But that is what I mean!” she cried, joyfully. “And is that where you stop?”
He turned on her a gaze of acute distress.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so, but I warn you—I, of course, can put up with anything—it is very rough, very rough indeed. They are not good hands at cooking—I have had a chop a day for the last fortnight. And the beds are very hard!”
Here he shuddered somewhat elaborately.
“I don’t happen to mind that sort of thing at all.”
“I chose it for quiet,” he went on, pathetically. “The landlady is a good soul, who understands my little ways, but——”