He could look at Rachel without her noticing it.  She was still absorbed in the water and the exquisitely pleasant sensations which a little depth of the sea washing over rocks suggests.  He noticed that she was wearing a dress of deep blue colour, made of a soft thin cotton stuff, which clung to the shape of her body.  It was a body with the angles and hollows of a young woman’s body not yet developed, but in no way distorted, and thus interesting and even lovable.  Raising his eyes Hewet observed her head; she had taken her hat off, and the face rested on her hand.  As she looked down into the sea, her lips were slightly parted.  The expression was one of childlike intentness, as if she were watching for a fish to swim past over the clear red rocks.  Nevertheless her twenty-four years of life had given her a look of reserve.  Her hand, which lay on the ground, the fingers curling slightly in, was well shaped and competent; the square-tipped and nervous fingers were the fingers of a musician.  With something like anguish Hewet realised that, far from being unattractive, her body was very attractive to him.  She looked up suddenly.  Her eyes were full of eagerness and interest.

“You write novels?” she asked.

For the moment he could not think what he was saying.  He was overcome with the desire to hold her in his arms.

“Oh yes,” he said.  “That is, I want to write them.”

She would not take her large grey eyes off his face.

“Novels,” she repeated.  “Why do you write novels?  You ought to write music.  Music, you see”—­she shifted her eyes, and became less desirable as her brain began to work, inflicting a certain change upon her face—­“music goes straight for things.  It says all there is to say at once.  With writing it seems to me there’s so much”—­she paused for an expression, and rubbed her fingers in the earth—­“scratching on the matchbox.  Most of the time when I was reading Gibbon this afternoon I was horribly, oh infernally, damnably bored!” She gave a shake of laughter, looking at Hewet, who laughed too.

“I shan’t lend you books,” he remarked.

“Why is it,” Rachel continued, “that I can laugh at Mr. Hirst to you, but not to his face?  At tea I was completely overwhelmed, not by his ugliness—­by his mind.”  She enclosed a circle in the air with her hands.  She realised with a great sense of comfort who easily she could talk to Hewet, those thorns or ragged corners which tear the surface of some relationships being smoothed away.

“So I observed,” said Hewet.  “That’s a thing that never ceases to amaze me.”  He had recovered his composure to such an extent that he could light and smoke a cigarette, and feeling her ease, became happy and easy himself.