From the corner he could only just see Megan, a long way ahead now.  He ran a few steps, checked himself, and dropped into a walk.  With each step nearer to her, further from the Hallidays, he walked more and more slowly.  How did it alter anything—­this sight of her?  How make the going to her, and that which must come of it, less ugly?  For there was no hiding it—­since he had met the Hallidays he had become gradually sure that he would not marry Megan.  It would only be a wild love-time, a troubled, remorseful, difficult time—­and then—­well, then he would get tired, just because she gave him everything, was so simple, and so trustful, so dewy.  And dew—­wears off!  The little spot of faded colour, her tam-o’-shanter cap, wavered on far in front of him; she was looking up into every face, and at the house windows.  Had any man ever such a cruel moment to go through?  Whatever he did, he felt he would be a beast.  And he uttered a groan which made a nursemaid turn and stare.  He saw Megan stop and lean against the sea-wall, looking at the sea; and he too stopped.  Quite likely she had never seen the sea before, and even in her distress could not resist that sight.  ‘Yes-she’s seen nothing,’ he thought; ‘everything’s before her.  And just for a few weeks’ passion, I shall be cutting her life to ribbons.  I’d better go and hang myself rather than do it!’ And suddenly he seemed to see Stella’s calm eyes looking into his, the wave of fluffy hair on her forehead stirred by the wind.  Ah! it would be madness, would mean giving up all that he respected, and his own self-respect.  He turned and walked quickly back towards the station.  But memory of that poor, bewildered little figure, those anxious eyes searching the passers-by, smote him too hard again, and once more he turned towards the sea.

The cap was no longer visible; that little spot of colour had vanished in the stream of the noon promenaders.  And impelled by the passion of longing, the dearth which comes on one when life seems to be whirling something out of reach, he hurried forward.  She was nowhere to be seen; for half an hour he looked for her; then on the beach flung himself face downward in the sand.  To find her again he knew he had only to go to the station and wait till she returned from her fruitless quest, to take her train home; or to take train himself and go back to the farm, so that she found him there when she returned.  But he lay inert in the sand, among the indifferent groups of children with their spades and buckets.  Pity at her little figure wandering, seeking, was well-nigh merged in the spring-running of his blood; for it was all wild feeling now—­the chivalrous part, what there had been of it, was gone.  He wanted her again, wanted her kisses, her soft, little body, her abandonment, all her quick, warm, pagan emotion; wanted the wonderful feeling of that night under the moonlit apple boughs; wanted it all with a horrible intensity, as the faun wants the nymph.