“Of course,” he went on, “I knew that these links were good—­quite famous, aren’t they?”

“I have played on so few others,” she told him.  “I learned my golf here with King, the professional.”

He took off his cap and handed it to his caddy.  He himself was beginning already to look younger.  The long blue waves came rippling up the creeks.  The salt wind, soft with sunshine, blew in their faces.  The marshes on the landward side were mauve with lavender blossom.  In the distance, the red-tiled cottages nestled deep among a background of green trees and rising fields.

“This indeed is a land of peace,” he declared.  “If I hadn’t to give you quite so many strokes, I should be really enjoying myself.”

“You don’t play like a man who has been living abroad for a great many years,” she remarked.  “Tell me about some of the places you have visited?”

“Don’t let us talk seriously,” he begged.  “I’ll tell you of them but let it be later on.  This morning I feel that the spring air is getting into my head.  I have an absurd desire to talk nonsense.”

“So far,” she admitted, “you haven’t been altogether unsuccessful.”

“If you are alluding,” he replied, “to the personal remarks I was emboldened to make on my way here, I can only say that they were excused by their truthfulness.”

“I am not at all sure that you have known me long enough to tell me what colours suit me,” she demurred.

“Then what will you say,” he enquired, “if I admire the angle of that quill in your hat?”

“Don’t do it,” she laughed.  “If you continue like this, I may have to go home.”

“You have sent the car away,” he reminded her cheerfully.  “You would simply have to sit upon the balcony and reflect upon your wasted morning.”

“I decline to talk upon the putting green,” she said.  “It puts me off.  If you will stand perfectly quiet and say nothing, I will play the like.”

They moved off presently to the next teeing ground.

“I don’t believe this nonsense is good for our golf,” she said.

“It is immensely good for us as human beings,” he protested.

They had played the ninth hole and turned for home.  On their right now was a shimmering stretch of wet sand and a thin line of sea, in the distance.  The tide, receding, had left little islands of virgin sand, grass tufted, the home of countless sea-gulls.  A brown-sailed fishing boat was racing for the narrow entrance to the tidal way.

“I am beginning to understand what there is about this coast which fascinated my father so,” he remarked.

“Are you?” she answered gravely.  “Years ago I used to love it, but not now.”

He tried to change the subject, but the gloom had settled upon her face once more.

“You don’t know what it is like,” she went on, as they walked side by side after their balls, “to live day and night in fear, with no one to talk to—­no one, that is to say, who is not under the same shadow.  Even the voices of the wind and the sea, and the screaming of the birds, seem to bring always an evil message.  There is nothing kindly or hopeful even in the sunshine.  At night, when the tide comes thundering in as it does so often at this time of the year, one is afraid.  There is so much to make one afraid!”