A waiter brought him a note. He glanced at the handwriting with startled eyes, then tore the envelope open. This was what he read—
"Dear Vincent, I wish to speak with you for a moment if you are not engaged. I am going down to the breakwater, and will wait there for a little while.
"MAISRIE."
He called to the waiter.
"When did this come?"
"I found it lying on the hall table, sir—just this minute, sir."
He did not waste time on further questions. In a couple of seconds he was outside and had crossed the road; and there, sure enough—far below him—out on the breakwater—was a solitary figure that he instantly recognised. He went quickly down the steps; he did not stay to ask what this might mean, or to prepare himself in any way; as he approached her, all his anxiety was to know if her eyes were kind—or hostile. Well, they were neither; but there was a certain pride in her tone as she spoke.
"Vincent, you were angry with me last night. Why?"
"Maisrie," said he, "why don't you put up that furred collar round your neck? It is so cold this morning. See, let me put it up for you."
She retreated an inch, declining: she waited for him to answer her question.