Juliet was looking at him with wonder in her soft eyes. His sudden
vehemence was rather bewildering.

"I don't quite know," she said vaguely. "But I rather want to do
something, you know."

"Oh, I know--I know," he said. "But you're not obliged to do this.
Something else is bound to turn up. Or if it doesn't--if it
doesn't--" He ground his heel deep into the yielding sand, and ended
in a husky undertone. "My God! What wouldn't I give for the privilege
of working for you?"

The words were uttered and beyond recall. He looked her straight in the
face as he spoke them, but an instant later he turned and stared out over
the wide, calm sea in a stillness that was somehow more forcible even
than his low, half-strangled speech had been.

Juliet stood silent also, almost as if she were waiting for him to
recover his balance. Her eyes also were gazing straight before her to
that far mysterious sky-line. They were very grave and rather sad.

He broke the silence after many seconds. "You will never speak to me
again after this."

"I hope I shall," she said gently.

He wheeled and faced her. "You're not angry then?"

She shook her head. "No."

His eyes flashed over her with amazing swiftness. "I almost wish you
were," he said.

"But why?" she said.

"Because I should know then it mattered a little. Now I know it doesn't.
I am just one of the many. Isn't that it? There are so many of us that
one more or less doesn't count either way." He laughed ruefully. "Well, I
won't repeat the offence. Even your patience must have its limits. Shall
we go back?"

It was then that Juliet turned, moved by an impulse so strangely urgent
that she could not pause to analyse it. She held out her hand to him,
quickly, shyly, and as he gripped and held it, she spoke, her voice
tremulous, breathless, barely coherent.

"I am not--offended. I am--very--very--deeply--honoured. Only
you--you--don't understand."

He kept her hand closely in his own. His grasp vibrated with electric
force, but he had himself in check. "You are more generous than I
deserve," he said, his voice sunk to a whisper. "Perhaps--some
day--understanding will come. May I hope for that?"

She did not answer him, but for one intimate second her eyes looked
straight into his. Then with a little, sobbing breath she slipped her
hand free.

"We--are forgetting Robin," she said, with an effort.

He turned at once. "By George, yes! I'm afraid I had forgotten
him," he sa