“Ra-ther!” said she, beginning to lace her boots.  And picnicking is fun in the last cove at Rockham.  The air smells so heavenly, the wind is so soft, the clouds so lumpy and white; and there are little caves in which to dress and undress for the purpose of bathing, to boil the kettle, or hunt for those little bits of over-dried wood which go off with the report of a pistol and plop out to singe your garments.

And so very few get as far!

Somehow the tide is generally on the turn, and if by chance it is not, the tortuous and narrow passages between the coves, with their rocking rocks and hidden pools, are enough to twist the ankles and temper of anyone who is not Devon born or bred.

“Yes!  I am due to sail for India about this day month,” said Jonathan Cuxson, Jan for short, a little later, as he drove the cold drumstick of a Devon chicken into the paper bag containing salt, while Leonie, holding the fellow leg in both hands, or at least the fingers of both hands, gnawed right heartily at the middle thereof, and the pardoned dog sat quivering with hope deferred.

“Isn’t this perfectly wonderful,” he went on, and Leonie mumbled “whum-whum” as interestedly and politely as her bone would allow.  “I mean our meeting like this!”

She smiled and sat forward, resting one hand upon the rocks, and the puppy, with a lamentable slump in manners, crawled up from behind and gently relieved her of the bone which still had luscious scraps of white flesh adhering to it, and a dream of a shining gristly knob at the end.

“Your idea of picnicing is somewhat luxurious,” she said, taking a cardboard plate full of jelly which he had smothered in cream.  “Tell me what you are going to make of your life!”

“You must blame or thank Mrs. Pugsley for the luxury.  I’m at Woolacombe, perched on the top of the hill, and she simply spoils me.  Will you have a cigarette?”

Leonie shook her head, and the two great, hastily twisted plaits wriggled like shining snakes, causing the dog to lay one paw on his bone and snarl.

“I don’t smoke!”

“How delightful!” said Jan Cuxson.  “I was sure you didn’t—­I love women who smell of lavender.”

“Won’t you smoke—­your pipe—­and tell me what you are going to make of your life.”

“They—­the plans—­have all been fogged up this morning !” he said slowly after a moment’s pause.  “How strange it all is.  Do you know that I was going up to town next week to hunt up you, of all people?  Do you remember anything of my father’s death?”

“We don’t talk about it,” said Leonie quietly, and the man looked at her with a sudden questioning in the steady eyes.

“I am taking on his work, you know, specialising in the brain.  I have got through all my exams quite decently, thanks, I think, to his wonderful notes, have travelled a bit in the east, and before settling down intended to go to India—­what for do you think?”