obviously irritated by
his presence; perhaps it was because in that spot he hoped to regain the
clean rapture which had filled his heart when first he saw her; perhaps
only, with the madness of those who love them that love them not, from
the feeling that his obstinacy could force love. One day he strolled
down there with a feeling that was rare with him now. He felt suddenly
at peace with the world. The evening was drawing in and the dusk seemed
to cling to the leaves of the coconut trees like a little thin cloud. A
faint breeze stirred them noiselessly. A crescent moon hung just over
their tops. He made his way to the bank. He saw Ethel in the water
floating on her back. Her hair streamed out all round her, and she was
holding in her hand a large hibiscus. He stopped a moment to admire her;
she was like Ophelia.

"Hulloa, Ethel," he cried joyfully.

She made a sudden movement and dropped the red flower. It floated idly
away. She swam a stroke or two till she knew there was ground within her
depth and then stood up.

"Go away," she said. "Go away."

He laughed.

"Don't be selfish. There's plenty of room for both of us."

"Why can't you leave me alone? I want to be by myself."

"Hang it all, I want to bathe," he answered, good-humouredly.

"Go down to the bridge. I don't want you here."

"I'm sorry for that," he said, smiling still.

He was not in the least angry, and he hardly noticed that she was in a
passion. He began to take off his coat.

"Go away," she shrieked. "I won't have you here. Can't you even leave me
this? Go away."

"Don't be silly, darling."

She bent down and picked up a sharp stone and flung it quickly at him.
He had no time to duck. It hit him on the temple. With a cry he put his
hand to his head and when he took it away it was wet with blood. Ethel
stood still, panting with rage. He turned very pale, and without a word,
taking up his coat, went away. Ethel let herself fall back into the
water and the stream carried her slowly down to the ford.

The stone had made a jagged wound and for some days Lawson went about
with a bandaged head. He had invented a likely story to account for the
accident when the fellows at the club asked him about it, but he had no
occasion to use it. No one referred to the matter. He saw them cast
surreptitious glances at his head, but not a word was said. The silence
could only mean that they knew how he came by his wound. He was certain
now that Ethel had