A pebble skimming past her and leaping from ripple to ripple like, a living thing caught her attention.  She turned sharply, and the next moment smiled a welcome.

Nick had come up behind her unperceived.  She greeted him with pleasure unfeigned.  She was tired of her own morbid thoughts just then.  Whatever he might be, he was at least never depressing.

“I’m saying good-bye,” she told him.  “I don’t suppose I shall ever come here again.”

He came and stood beside her while he grubbed in the sand with a stick.

“Not even to see me?” he suggested.

“Are you going to live here?” she asked in surprise.

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Nick, “when I marry.”

“Are you going to be married?” Almost in spite of her the question leapt out.

He looked up, grinning shrewdly.  “I put it to you,” he said.  “Am I the sort of man to live alone?”

She experienced a curious sense of relief.  “But you are not alone in the world,” she pointed out.  “You have relations.”

“You regard marriage as a last resource?” questioned Nick.

She coloured and turned her face to the shore.  “I don’t think any man ought to marry unless—­unless—­he cares,” she said, striving hard to keep the personal note out of her voice.

“Exactly,” said Nick, moving beside her.  “But doesn’t that remark apply to women as well?”

She did not answer him.  A discussion on this topic was the last thing she desired.

He did not press the point, and she wondered a little at his forbearance.  She glanced at him once or twice as they walked, but his humorous, yellow face told her nothing.

Reaching some rocks, he suddenly stopped.  “I’ve got to get some seaweed for Olga.  Do you mind waiting?”

“I will help you,” she answered.

He shook his head.  “No, you are tired.  Just sit down in the sun.  I won’t be long.”

She seated herself without protest, and he turned to leave her.  A few paces from her he paused, and she saw that he was trying to light a cigarette.  He failed twice, and impulsively she sprang up.

“Nick, why don’t you ask me to help you?”

He whizzed round.  “Perhaps I don’t want you to,” he said quizzically.

She took the match-box from him.  “Don’t be absurd!  Why shouldn’t I?” She struck a match and held it out to him.  But he did not take it from her.  He took her wrist instead, and stooping forward lighted his cigarette deliberately.

She did not look at him.  Some instinct warned her that his eyes were intently searching her face.  She seemed to feel them darting over her in piercing, impenetrable scrutiny.

He released her slowly at length and stood up.  “Am I to have the pleasure of dancing at your wedding?” he asked her suddenly.

She looked up then very sharply, and against her will a burning blush rose up to her temples.  He waited for her answer, and at last it came.