Durant sat and looked about him.  There was little to attract the eye in the simple furnishing of the tiny room.  There was a small bookcase in one corner, but it was covered by a red curtain.  Two old-fashioned Dutch figures stood on the mantelpiece on each side of a cheap little clock that seemed to tick at him almost resentfully.  The walls were tinted green and bore no pictures or decoration of any sort.  There was a plain white tablecloth on the table, and in the middle stood a handleless jug filled with pink and white wild roses, freshly gathered.  There was no carpet.  The floor was strewn with beach sand.

All these details Durant took in with keen interest.  Nothing could have exceeded the simplicity of this dwelling by the sea.  There had obviously been no attempt at artistic arrangement.  Cleanliness and a neatness almost severe were its only characteristics.

“I hope you like toasted scones, sir,” said Molly’s voice in the doorway.

He looked round to see her come forward with the tea-tray.

“Nothing better,” he said lightly, “particularly if you have made them yourself.”

She set down her tray and smiled at him.  Her short, curling hair gave her an almost elfish look.

“I’ve been so busy getting ready,” she said childishly.  “I’ve never had a gentleman to tea before.”

“That is a very great honour for me,” said Durant.

Molly looked delighted.

“I think the honour is mine,” she said in her shy voice.  “I am just going to fetch the wooden chair out of the kitchen.”

She departed hastily as if embarrassed, and Durant smiled to himself.  It was wonderful how the oppression had been lifted from his spirit since his meeting with this lonely dweller on the shore.

When Molly reappeared, he saw that she had assumed a dignity worthy of the occasion.  She sat down behind the brown teapot with a serious face.  He waited for her to lead the conversation, and the result was complete silence for some seconds.

Then she said suddenly: 

“Have you been sitting in the summer-house again?”

“No,” said Durant.

“I am glad of that,” said Molly.

“Why?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“Isn’t it rather a lonely place?” she said.

He smiled faintly.

“You know I came here to be lonely, Molly,” he said.

“Yes; you told me,” said Molly, and he fancied that he heard her sigh.

“Are you never lonely?” he asked in a kindly tone.

“Often,” she said.  “Often.”

She was pouring the tea as she spoke.  Her head was slightly bent.

“And so you took pity on me?” said Durant.

She shook her head suddenly and vigorously.

“It wasn’t that, sir,” she said in a very low voice.  “I—­I wanted—­someone—­to speak to.”

“I see,” said Durant gently.  He added after a moment:  “Do you know, I am glad I chanced to be that someone.”