“He” had seemed disappointed to find her here.  And she——?  Well! she was sorry she had seen him.  In New York, where she had not even known his name, he had seemed to belong to her, in a way, by right of their common sympathy and understanding.  Here, among all these people who were his people, who delighted to honour him, he seemed completely lost to her. . . .

After a weary while, Mary Alice got up and sat by the window, looking across to the main part of the great house and wondering which of the darkened windows was his and if he had dismissed her easily from his mind and gone comfortably to sleep.  The early dawn breeze was blowing from the sea when she dozed into a brief, dream-troubled sleep.

XII

AT OCEAN’S EDGE

Only the gardeners and a few of the house servants were about when she went down-stairs, through the still house and out on to the terraces, towards the sea.  She had hung the white and silver finery carefully away, glad to feel so far divorced from it and all it represented as she did in her gown of unbleached linen crash which she and Godmother had made.

“I’m like Cinderella,” she reminded herself as she buttoned the crash gown, “Godmother and all.  Only, her prince loved her when he saw her in her finery, and mine despised me.  I suppose he thought I was a silly little ‘climber’ trying to get out of the chimney-corner where I belong.  But I think he owed it to me to let me explain.”

There was a cove on the shore whose shelter she particularly loved; and she was going thither now, as these bitter reflections filled her mind.  The tide was ebbing, but the thin, slowly-widening line of beach was wet and she had to pick her way carefully.  She was so mindful of her steps and, under all her mindfulness, so conscious of the ache in her heart, that she was not noticing much else than the way to pick her steps; and she had rounded the rocky corner of the cove and was far into her favoured little nook, when she saw that it was occupied.  A man sat back in its deepest shelter, looking out to sea.  He started when he saw her, and she looked back as if calculating a flight.

“Please don’t go,” he begged, rising to greet her.  “I was unpardonably rude to you last night and it has made me very wretched.  You have no right to pardon me, but I hope you won’t go away without letting me tell you how sorry I am.”

“I—­it was nothing—­I pardon you—­I think I understand,” said Mary Alice, weakly.

He shook his head.  “How could you—­who are so gentle—­understand?” Mary Alice looked about to protest, but he silenced her with a commanding gesture.  “I’ve been so much with savages that I’ve grown savage in my own ways, it seems.  But—­it was like this:  You taught me a game, once.  It was a charming game and I was glad to learn.  But we could play it only twice, and then I had to