She was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching-block and camp-stool.

　　"Good evening," I said.

　　"Good evening," said she.

　　It is curious how different the same words can sound, when spoken bydifferent people. My "good evening" might have been that of a man witha particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing somethingmore than usually ignoble. She spoke like a rather offended angel.

　　"It's a lovely evening," I went on pluckily.

　　"Very.""The sunset!""Yes.""Er--"She raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faintsuggestion of surprise, and gazed through me for a moment at someobject a couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again,leaving me with a vague feeling that there was something wrong with mypersonal appearance.

　　Very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp-stool, and sat down. Neither of us spoke a word. I watched her whileshe filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened herpaint-box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching-block inposition.

　　She began to paint.

　　Now, by all the laws of good taste, I should before this have made adignified exit. It was plain that I was not to be regarded as anessential ornament of this portion of the Ware Cliff. By now, if I hadbeen the Perfect Gentleman, I ought to have been a quarter of a mileaway.

　　But there is a definite limit to what a man can do. I remained.

　　The sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea. Phyllis' hairwas tinged with it. Little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below.

　　Except for the song of a distant blackbird, running through itsrepertoire before retiring for the night, everything was silent.

　　She sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never aword for me--standing patiently and humbly behind her.

　　"Miss Derrick," I said.

　　She half turned her head.

　　"Yes.""Why won't you speak to me?" I said.

　　"I don't understand you.""Why won't you speak to me?""I think you know, Mr. Garnet.""It is because of that boat accident?""Accident!""Episode," I amended.

　　She went on painting in silence. From where I stood I could see herprofile. Her chin was tilted. Her expression was determined.

　　"Is it?" I said.

　　"Need we discuss it?""Not if you do not wish it."I paused.

　　"But," I added, "I should have liked a chance to defend myself. . . .

　　What glorious sunsets there have been these last few days. I believewe shall have this sort of weather for another month.""I should not have thought that possible.""The glass is going up," I said.

　　"I was not talking about the weather.""It was dull of me to introduce such a worn-out topic.""You said you could defend yourself.""I said I should like the chance to do so.""You have it.""That's very kind of you. Thank you.""Is there any reason for gratitude?""Every reason.""Go on, Mr. Garnet. I can listen while I paint. But please sit down. Idon't like being talked to from a height."I sat down on the grass in front of her, feeling as I did so that thechange of position in a manner clipped my wings. It is difficult tospeak movingly while sitting on the ground. Instinctively I avoidedeloquence. Standing up, I might have been pathetic and pleading.

　　Sitting down, I was compelled to be matter-of-fact.

　　"You remember, of course, the night you and Professor Derrick dinedwith us? When I say dined, I use the word in a loose sense."For a moment I thought she was going to smile. We were both thinkingof Edwin. But it was only for a moment, and then her face grew coldonce more, and the chin resumed its angle of determination.

　　"Yes," she said.

　　"You remember the unfortunate ending of the festiviti............