r eddies
round and round, where smooth eager lips, rising from the whirlpools,
seem as if they reached up for something to kiss, and are sucked down
again into the depths with voiceless passion. Foot by foot the water
gains on the rocks beside the channels, on the fringes of the boulders,
on the stony shores, and covers the stretches of mud:

The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pale ablution round
earth's human shore. But they do not escape without defilement On the
surface of the tide, when it ebbs from the mudbanks, there gathers an
iridescent slime. Tiny particles of floating sand catch and reflect the
light Fragments of dead weed, black or brown, are borne along. The tide
has stolen across the beaches below the cottages and carried away the
garbage cast there. It has passed where a little while before the cattle
strayed, and passing has been stained. Here is no breaking of clear
green waves against black defiant rocks, no tumultuous pitched battle
between the ocean, inspired by the supreme passion of the tide, and the
sullen resistance of unyielding cliffs. Instead a dubious sea wanders in
and out amid scenes which the experience of many centuries has not made
familiar to it.

It was into this shining bay that the _Tortoise_ sped, her white sails
bellied with the pleasant wind. Priscilla exulted, with flushed cheeks
and sparkling eyes.

Frank, yielding a little to the fascination of the sailing, was yet ill
at ease. His conscience troubled him, the acutely sensitive conscience
of a prefect who had been responsible for the tone of Edmondstone
House. He feared that he had done wrong in going with Priscilla in the
_Tortoise_, wrong of a particularly flagrant kind. He thought of himself
as a man of responsibility placed in the position of trust. Had he been
guilty of a breach of trust? It seemed remotely unlikely, so cheerful
and sparkling was the sea, that any accident could possibly occur. But
with what feelings could he face a broken and reproachful father should
anything happen and Priscilla be drowned? The blame would justly rest on
him. The fault would be entirely his.

"Priscilla," he said, "I wish we hadn't come. I ought not to have come
when Uncle Lucius has forbidden you to use this boat."

"Oh," said Priscilla, "don't you fret Father doesn't really mind a bit.
He only pretends to, has to, you know, on account of Aunt Juliet He
knows jolly well that I can sail the _Tortoise_, any one could."