“I have been travelling in an uncomfortable compartment,” she observed.  “I happened to notice, when passing along the corridor, that yours was empty.  In any case, I am getting out at the next station.”

“So am I,” he replied, still cheerfully.  “I suppose the next station is St. David’s?”

She made no answer, but so far as her expression counted for anything at all, she was a little surprised.  Her eyes considered him for a moment.  Hamel was tall, well over six feet, powerfully made, with good features, clear eyes, and complexion unusually sunburnt.  He wore a flannel collar of unfamiliar shape, and his clothes, although they were neat enough, were of a pattern and cut obviously designed to afford the maximum of ease and comfort with the minimum regard to appearance.  He wore, too, very thick boots, and his hands gave one the impression that they were seldom gloved.  His voice was pleasant, and he had the easy self-confidence of a person sure of himself in the world.  She put him down as a colonial —­perhaps an American—­but his rank in life mystified her.

“This seems the queerest stretch of country,” he went on; “long spits of sand jutting right out into the sea, dikes and creeks —­miles and miles of them.  Now, I wonder, is it low tide or high?  Low, I should think, because of the sea-shine on the sand there.”

She glanced out of the window.

“The tide,” she told him, “is almost at its lowest.”

“You live in this neighbourhood, perhaps?” he enquired.

“I do,” she assented.

“Sort of country one might get very fond of,” he ventured.

She glanced at him from the depths of her grey eyes.

“Do you think so?” she rejoined coldly.  “For my part, I hate it.”

He was surprised at the unexpected emphasis of her tone—­the first time, indeed, that she had shown any signs of interest in the conversation.

“Kind of dull I suppose you find it,” he remarked pensively, looking out across the waste of lavender-grown marshes, sand hummocks piled with seaweed, and a far distant line of pebbled shore.  “And yet, I don’t know.  I have lived by the sea a good deal, and however monotonous it may seem at first, there’s always plenty of change, really.  Tide and wind do such wonderful work.”

She, too, was looking out now towards the sea.

“Oh, it isn’t exactly that,” she said quietly.  “I am quite willing to admit what all the tourists and chance visitors call the fascination of these places.  I happen to dislike them, that is all.  Perhaps it is because I live here, because I see them day by day; perhaps because the sight of them and the thought of them have become woven into my life.”

She was talking half to herself.  For a moment, even the knowledge of his presence had escaped her.  Hamel, however, did not realise that fact.  He welcomed her confidence as a sign of relaxation from the frigidity of her earlier demeanour.