“But the other thing,” said the sleepless man irritably, “the other thing.  No man can keep sane if night after night—­”

“Have you been walking along this coast alone?”

“Yes.”

“Silly sort of thing to do.  If you’ll excuse my saying so.  Alone!  As you say; body fag is no cure for brain fag.  Who told you to?  No wonder; walking!  And the sun on your head, heat, fag, solitude, all the day long, and then, I suppose, you go to bed and try very hard—­eh?”

Isbister stopped short and looked at the sufferer doubtfully.

“Look at these rocks!” cried the seated man with a sudden force of gesture.  “Look at that sea that has shone and quivered there for ever!  See the white spume rush into darkness under that great cliff.  And this blue vault, with the blinding sun pouring from the dome of it.  It is your world.  You accept it, you rejoice in it.  It warms and supports and delights you.  And for me—­”

He turned his head and showed a ghastly face, bloodshot pallid eyes and bloodless lips.  He spoke almost in a whisper.  “It is the garment of my misery.  The whole world ... is the garment of my misery.”

Isbister looked at all the wild beauty of the sunlit cliffs about them and back to that face of despair.  For a moment he was silent.

He started, and made a gesture of impatient rejection.  “You get a night’s sleep,” he said, “and you won’t see much misery out here.  Take my word for it.”

He was quite sure now that this was a providential encounter.  Only half an hour ago he had been feeling horribly bored.  Here was employment the bare thought of which, was righteous self-applause.  He took possession forthwith.  The first need of this exhausted being was companionship.  He flung himself down on the steeply sloping turf beside the motionless seated figure, and threw out a skirmishing line of gossip.

His hearer lapsed into apathy; he stared dismally seaward, and spoke only in answer to Isbister’s direct questions—­and not to all of those.  But he made no objection to this benevolent intrusion upon his despair.

He seemed even grateful, and when presently Isbister, feeling that his unsupported talk was losing vigour, suggested that they should reascend the steep and return towards Boscastle, alleging the view into Blackapit, he submitted quietly.  Halfway up he began talking to himself, and abruptly turned a ghastly face on his helper.  “What can be happening?” he asked with a gaunt illustrative hand.  “What can be happening?  Spin, spin, spin, spin.  It goes round and round, round and round for evermore.”

He stood with his hand circling.

“It’s all right, old chap,” said Isbister with the air of an old friend.  “Don’t worry yourself.  Trust to me,”