was close upon the dawn before Jeanne Falla's party broke up, and as I
jogged soberly down the lane from La Vauroque on Gray Robin, I met the
jovial ones all streaming homewards.

A moment before, the quiet gray lane, with its fern-covered banks and
hedges of roses and honeysuckle all asleep and drenched with dew, was all
in keeping with my spirits, which were gray also, partly with the weariness
of such unaccustomed merriment, and still more at thought of my various
stupidities.

They all gathered round me and broke out into fresh laughter.

"Ma fe, Phil, but you're going to make a day of it! We wondered where you'd
got to."

"Bon dou donc, you're in your pontificals, mon gars!"

"Is it a bank of roses you're riding, then?" and Gray Robin hotched
uncomfortably though still half asleep.

"The early bird gets the nicest worm. Keep ahead of the Frenchman, Phil,
and good luck to you!"

"Good luck to you all!" and their laughing voices died away along the
lanes, and I woke up Gray Robin and went on to Beaumanoir.

I hitched the bridle over the gatepost, and lighted my pipe, and strolled
to and fro with my hands deep in the pockets of my grandfather's best blue
pilot-cloth jacket, for there was a chill in the air as though the night
must die outright before the new day came.

Now, sunrise is small novelty to a sailorman. But there is a mighty
difference between watching it across the welter of tumbling waves from the
sloppy deck of a ship, and watching it from the top of the knoll outside
Beaumanoir, with Carette fast asleep behind the white curtains of the gray
stone house there.

Little matter that it might be hours before she came--since Jeanne Falla
knew that rest was as necessary to a girl as food, if she was to keep her
health and good looks. I could wait all day for Carette if needs be, and
Gray Robin was already fast asleep on three legs, with the fourth crooked
comfortably beneath him.

I can live that morning over again, though the years have passed.

... All the west was dark and dim. The sea was the colour of lead. Brecqhou
was a long black shadow. Herm and Jethou were darker spots on the dimness
beyond, and Guernsey was not to be seen. The sky up above me was thin and
vague. But away in the east over France, behind long banks of soft dark
cloud, it was thinner and rarer still, and seemed to throb with a little
pulse of life. And behind the white curtains in the gray stone house,
Carette lay sleepi