“There are only a very few days in the year that Minne-ha-ha ever comes out of her shed,” Sabine told him, pointing to the boat-house.  “You cannot imagine what the wind is here—­even now it may get up in a few moments on this glassy sea, or thunder may come—­and in the autumn the storms are too glorious.  I sit at one of the big windows in my sitting-room and watch the waves for hours; they break on the rocks which stretch out from the tower, which is my bedroom on the Finisterre side, and they rise mountain-high; it is a most splendid sight.  We are, as it were, in the midst of a cauldron of boiling foam.  It exalts and vitalizes me more than I can tell you.  I wish it had been the autumn now.”

“I don’t,” he said.  “I much prefer the summer and peace.  I want to take away all that desire for fierce things, dearest—­they were the echoes of those dark thoughts and shadows which used to be in your eyes at Carlsbad.”

“Ah, if you could!” she sighed.

It was the first time he had ever seen her moved—­and it distressed him.

“Do you not think that I can, then?” he asked, tenderly.  “It is the only thing I really want in life—­to make you happy.”

“How good you are, Henry!” she cried; “so noble and unselfish and true; you frighten me.  I am just a creature of earth—­full of things you may not like when you know me better.  I am sure I think of myself more than any one else—­you make me—­ashamed.”

He took her hand and kissed it, while his fine gray eyes melted in worship.

“I will not even listen when you say such things—­for me you are perfect—­a pearl of great price.”

“I must try to be, but I am not,” and her voice trembled a little.  “I believe I am as full of faults and life as your friend there—­Mr. Arranstoun, who I am sure is just a selfish, reckless man!”

Michael at this moment reached the boat-house with old Berthe’s son, who began to help him to untie the one he wanted.  He looked the most splendid creature there in his white flannels—­and he turned and waved to them and then got in and pulled out a few yards with long, easy strokes.

“Michael is a character,” his friend said.  “He has been spoilt all his life by women—­and fortune.  He has a most strange story.  He married a girl about five years ago just to make himself safe from another woman whom he had been making love to.  I was awfully angry with him at the time—­I was staying in the house and I refused to wait for the wedding.  I thought it such a shame to the girl, although it was merely an empty ceremony—­but she was awfully young, I believe.”

“How interesting!” and Sabine’s voice was strained.  “You saw the girl—­what was she like?”

“No, I never saw her—­it was all settled one afternoon when I was out—­and I thought it such a thundering shame that I left that same night.”

“And if you had stayed—­you would have met her—­how curious fate is sometimes—­isn’t it?  Perhaps you could have prevented your friend being so foolish—­if you had stayed.”