And—­and—­she admitted it shyly to herself and not without wonder, and found herself dwelling upon it as she sang softly to the ping-pang of the milk into the pail, or the swoosh of it in the churn—­he thought of her, Nance Hamon—­perhaps he even admired her a little—­any way he was certainly interested in her, and in his shy reserved way he showed a desire for her company which she no longer found pleasure in defeating as she had done at first.

Undoubtedly an odd feeling, this, of being cared for by an outside man—–­ but withal tending to increase of self-esteem and therefore not unpleasing.

Peter Mauger, indeed—­but then she had never looked upon Peter as anything but Peter, and the shadow of Tom had always obscured him to her.  Stephen Gard was a man, and a different kind of a man from Peter altogether.

She remembered, with a slight reddening still of the warm brown cheeks whenever she thought of it—­how, on the previous Sunday afternoon, she and Bernel had gone running over the downs through the waist-high bracken towards Breniere, the tide in their favourite pool below the rocks being too high for bathing.  And on the slope above the Cromlech they had come suddenly on Gard, lying there looking out over the sea towards L’Etat.

He had jumped up at sight of them and stood hesitating a moment.

“Going for a bathe?” he asked, knowing the usual course of their proceedings.

“Yes, we were,” said Bernel.  “You going?” with a glance at the towel Gard had brought out on the chance of a dip.

“I’d thought of it, but your tides and currents here are so troublesome—­”

“Oh, we know all about ’em.  They’re all right when you know.”

“I suppose so, but—­” with a look at Nance, “I’ll clear out.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Your sister wouldn’t like it.”

“Nance?” with a look of surprise.  “She won’t mind.  Will you, Nance?”

Then it was her turn to hesitate, for bathing with Bernel was one thing, and with Mr. Gard quite another.

“You’ll show me another time, Bernel,” said Gard, picking up his towel.  “I wouldn’t like to spoil your fun now.”

“But you wouldn’t.  Would he, Nance?”

“I don’t mind—­if you’ll give me the cave.”

“All the caves you want,” said Bernel, scornful at such unusual stickling on the part of his chum.

“Quite sure you don’t mind?” asked Gard, doubtful still.

“If I have the cave.  It’s generally the one who gets there first, and Bern goes quicker than I do.”

“Of course.  You’re only a girl,” laughed Bernel, as he raced on down the slope.

And Nance laughed too at his brotherly depreciation, and Gard, who had never regarded her as only a girl, and whose thoughts of her were very absorbing and uplifting, happening to catch her eye, laughed also, and so they went down towards the sea in pleasant enough humour and the nearest approach to good-fellowship they had yet attained.