They were very much by themselves out here at the end of the world, and yet they did not seem inclined to talk much.  Wenna sat down on the warm grass; her companion perched himself on one of the blocks of granite; they watched the great undulations of the blue water come rolling on to the black rocks and then fall backward seething in foam.

“And what are you thinking about?” said Trelyon to her gently, so that she should not be startled.

“Of nothing at all:  I am quite happy,” Wenna said frankly.  Then she added, “I suppose the worst of a day like this is that a long time after you look back upon it, and it seems so beautiful and far away that it makes you miserable.  You think how happy you were once.  That is the unfortunate side of being happy.”

“Well,” said he, “I must say you don’t look forward to the future with any great hope if you think the recollection of one bright day will make you wretched.”

He came down from his perch and stood beside her.  “Why, Wenna,” said he, “do you know what you really need?  Some one to take you in hand thoroughly, and give you such an abundance of cheerful and pleasant days that you would never think of singling out any one of them.  Why shouldn’t you have weeks and months of happy idling in bright weather, such as lots of people have who don’t deserve them a bit?  There’s something wrong in your position.  You want some one to become your master and compel you to make yourself happy.  You won’t of yourself study your own comfort:  some one else ought to make you.”

“And who do you think would care to take so much trouble about me?” she said with a smile, for she attached no serious meaning to this random talk.

Her companion’s face flushed somewhat—­not with embarrassment, but with the courage of what he was going to say.  “I would,” he said boldly.  “You will say it is none of my business, but I tell you I would give twenty thousand pounds to-morrow if I were allowed to—­to get you a whole summer of pleasant holidays.”

There was something about the plain-spoken honesty of this avowal that touched her keenly.  Wild and impossible as the suggestion was, it told her at least what one person in the world thought of her.  She said to him, with her eyes cast down, “I like to hear you speak like that—­not for my own sake, but I know there is nothing generous and kindly that you wouldn’t do at a mere moment’s impulse.  But I hope you don’t think I have been grumbling over my lot on such a day as this?  Oh no:  I see too much of other people’s way of living to complain of my own.  I have every reason to be contented and happy.”

“Yes, you’re a deal too contented and happy,” said he with an impatient shrug.  “You want somebody to alter all that, and see that you get more to be contented and happy about.”

She rose:  he gave her his hand to help her up.  But he did not surrender her hand then, for the path up the slope was a deep and difficult one, and she could fairly rely on his strength and sureness of foot.