himself any of the small sense of humor that was his in normal times
and hide his feelings behind it. He was very far from being the Gilbert
Palgrave of the early spring,--the cool, satirical, complete man of the
world.

"Well?" he asked.

Joan pretended to be surprised. "Well what, Gilbert dear? I wanted to
have a nice little talk before lunch, that's all, and so I ventured to
disturb you."

"Ventured to disturb me! You're brighter than usual this morning."

"Ah I? Is that possible? How sweet of you to say so. Do sit down and
look a little less like an avenging angel. The sand's quite warm and
dry."

He kicked a little shower of it into the air. "I don't want to sit
down," he said. "You bore me. I'm fed up with this place and sick to
tears of you."

"Sick to tears of me? Why, what in the world have I done?"

"Every conceivable and ingenious thing that I might have expected of
you. Loyalty was entirely left out of your character, it appears. Young
Oldershaw and the doddering Hosack measure up to your standard. I can't
compete."

Joan allowed almost a minute to go by in silence. She felt at the very
tip-top of health, having ridden for some hours and gone hot into the
sea. To be mischievous was natural enough. This man took himself so
seriously, too. She would have been made of different stuff or have
acquired a greater knowledge of Palgrave's curious temperament to have
been able to resist the temptation to tantalize.

"Aren't you, by any chance, a little on the rude side this morning,
Gilbert?"

"If you call the truth rude," he said, "yes."

"I do. Very. The rudest thing I know."

He looked down at her. She was leaning against the narrow wooden back
of a beach chair. Her hands were clasped round her white knees. She
wore little thin black shoes and no stockings. A tight rubber bathing
cap which came low down on her forehead gave her a most attractively
boyish look. She might have been a young French Pierrot in a picture by
Sem or Van Beers. He almost hated her at that moment, sitting there in
all the triumph of youth, untouched by his ardor, unaffected by his
passion.

"You needn't worry," he said. "You won't get any more of it from me. So
that you may continue to amuse yourself undisturbed I withdraw from the
baby hunt. I'm off this afternoon."

He had cried "Wolf!" so many times that Joan didn't believe him.

"I daresay a change of air will do you good," she said. "Where are you
going?"

He sh