Becky felt, suddenly, that she was very angry with Randy.  It was as if he had broken a lovely thing that she had worshipped.  She hated to think of that struggle in the dark——­ She hated to think of Randy as—­the Conqueror.  She hated to think of George as dank and dripping.  She wanted to think of him as shining and splendid, and Randy had spoiled that.

But she wanted to be fair.  Hadn’t George, after all, spoiled his own splendidness?  He had wooed her and had run away.  And he had not run back until he thought another man wanted her.

“Of course,” said somebody behind her, “you won’t tell me what you are thinking about.  But if you will just let me sit here and think, by your side, it will be a great privilege.”

It was Mr. Cope, and she was not sure that she wanted him at this moment.  Perhaps something of her thought showed in her eyes, for when she said, “Oh, yes,” he stood looking down at her.  “Would you rather be alone with your letters?  Don’t hedge and be polite.  Tell me.”

“Well,” she admitted, “my letters are a bit on my mind.  But if you don’t care if I am stupid, you can stay——­”

He sat down.  He had known her for ten days, and dreaded to think that in ten days more she might be gone.  “I won’t talk if you don’t wish it.”

Becky’s eyes were on the sea.  “I think I should like to talk.  I have been thinking—­about that Indian that you want commemorated in bronze up there on the bluff.  Do you think he was cruel?”

“Who knows?  He was, perhaps, a savage.  Yet he may have been tender-hearted.  I hope so, if he is going to be fixed in bronze for the ages to stare at.”

“Did you,” Becky asked, deliberately, “ever want to tie a man to a stake and build a fire under him?”

He turned and stared at her.  “My dear child, what ever put such an idea in your head?”

“Well, did you?”

He considered it.  “There was a time in France when I wanted to do worse than that.”

“But that was war.”

“No, it was a brute in my own company.  He broke the heart of a little girl that he met in Brittany.  He—­he—­well he murdered her—­dreams.

“Perhaps he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“He knew.  Every man knows.”

“And you wanted to make him—­suffer——­”

“Yes.”

She shivered.  “Are all men like that?”

“Like what?”

“Cruel.”

“It can’t be cruelty.  It’s a sense of justice.”

“I hope it is.”  She kept thinking about George rising dank and dripping from the fountain.  She hated to think about it.

So she changed the subject.  “I thought you were painting.”

“I was.  But the moor is fickle.  Yesterday she billowed towards the south, all gray and blue.  And last night the storm spoiled it; she is gorgeous and gay to-day, and I don’t like her.”

“Oh, why not?”