curious sensation of being the only
living thing in a world of figures moved by mechanism. She stood at
the top of the steps which led down on to the pier, where the sailors
loitered at idle times, and was greeted by those she knew with slow
smiles of recognition; but she had nothing to say to any of them.

The tide was going out, and had left some of the ships in the harbour
all canted to one side; cobles and pleasure-boats rested in the mud; a
cockle-gatherer was wading about in it with his trousers turned up
over his knees, and his bare legs so thickly coated, it looked as if
he had black leggings on. Beth went to the edge of the pier, and stood
for a few minutes looking down at him. She was facing west, but the
sun was already too low to hurt her eyes. On her right the red-roofed
houses crowded down to the quay irregularly. Fishing-nets were hanging
out of some of the windows. Here and there, down in the harbour, the
rich brown sails had been hoisted on some of the cobles to dry. There
were some yachts at anchor, and Beth looked at them eagerly, hoping to
find Count Bartahlinsky's _Seagull_ amongst them. It was not there;
but presently she became conscious of some one standing beside her,
and on looking up she recognised Black Gard, the Count's confidential
man. He was dressed like the fishermen in drab trousers and a dark
blue jersey, but wore a blue cloth cap, with the name of the yacht on
it, instead of a sou'wester.

"Has your master returned?" she said.

"No, miss," he answered. "He's still abroad. He'll be back for the
hunting, though."

"I doubt it," said Beth, resentful of that vague "abroad," which
absorbed him into itself the greater part of the year. When she had
spoken, she turned her back on Gard and the sunset, and wandered off
up the cliffs. She had noticed a sickly smell coming up from the mud
in the harbour, and wanted to escape from it, but somehow it seemed to
accompany her. It reminded her of something--no, that was not it. What
she was searching about in her mind for was some way, not to name it,
but to express it. She felt there was a formula for it within reach,
but for some time she could not recover it. Then she gave up the
attempt, and immediately afterwards she suddenly said to herself--

"... the smell of death
Came reeking from those spicy bowers,
And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath
Upwafted from the innocent flowers."