If she found that what was immediately overhead and beside her was too bland, if she wearied of that lovely drift of clouds across the sky, then she had only to raise herself upon one elbow and look down to the broad, white band of the earth, and the startling blue of the ocean beyond.  She was a little way up among the hills, to be sure, but, in spite of her elevation, when she looked out toward the horizon it seemed that the sea was hollowed like a great bowl—­that the horizon wave was apt at any moment to roll in upon the beach and overwhelm her among the hills.

Not a very great excitement for such a girl as Ruth Tolliver, to be sure.  Particularly when the faint crease between her eyes told of a perpetual worry and a strain under which she was now living.  She was trying to lose herself in forgetfulness, in this open, drowsy climate.

Behind her a leisurely step came down one of the garden paths.  It brought her to attention at once.  A shadow passed across her face, and instantly she was sitting up, alert and excited.

John Mark sat down cross-legged beside her, a very changed John Mark, indeed.  He wore white trousers and low white shoes, with a sack coat of blue—­a cool-looking man even on this sultry day.  The cane, which he insisted upon at all times, he had planted between his knees to help in the process of lowering himself to the ground.  Now he hooked the head over his shoulder, pushed back his hat and smiled at the girl.

“Everything is finished,” he said calmly.  “How well you look, Ruth—­that hair of yours against the green grass.  Everything is finished; the license and the clergyman will arrive here within the hour.”

She shrugged her shoulders.  As a rule she tried at least to be politely acquiescent, but now and then something in her revolted.  But John Mark was an artist in choosing remarks and moments which should not be noticed.  Apparently her silence made not even a ripple on the calm surface of his assurance.

He had been so perfectly diplomatic, indeed, during the whole affair, that she had come to respect and fear him more than ever.  Even in that sudden midnight departure from the house in Beekman Place, in that unaccountable panic which made him decide to flee from the vicinity of Ronicky Doone—­even in that critical moment he had made sure that there was a proper chaperon with them.  During all her years with him he had always taken meticulous care that she should be above the slightest breath of suspicion—­a strange thing when the work to which he had assigned her was considered.

“Well,” he asked, “now that you’ve seen, how do you like it?  If you wish, we’ll move today after the ceremony.  It’s only a temporary halting place, or it can be a more or less permanent home, just as you please.”

It rather amused her to listen to this deprecatory manner of speech.  Of course she could direct him in small matters, but in such a thing as the choice of a residence she knew that in the end he would absolutely have his own way.