The quick chatter of the little bright trout-stream, the dazzle of the buttercups, the rocks of the old “wild men”; the calling of the cuckoos and yaffles, the hooting of the owls; and the red moon peeping out of the velvet dark at the living whiteness of the blossom; and her face just out of reach at the window, lost in its love-look; and her heart against his, her lips answering his, under the apple tree—­all this besieged him.  Yet he lay inert.  What was it which struggled against pity and this feverish longing, and kept him there paralysed in the warm sand?  Three flaxen heads—­a fair face with friendly blue—­grey eyes, a slim hand pressing his, a quick voice speaking his name—­“So you do believe in being good?” Yes, and a sort of atmosphere as of some old walled-in English garden, with pinks, and cornflowers, and roses, and scents of lavender and lilaccool and fair, untouched, almost holy—­all that he had been brought up to feel was clean and good.  And suddenly he thought:  ‘She might come along the front again and see me!’ and he got up and made his way to the rock at the far end of the beach.  There, with the spray biting into his face, he could think more coolly.  To go back to the farm and love Megan out in the woods, among the rocks, with everything around wild and fitting—­that, he knew, was impossible, utterly.  To transplant her to a great town, to keep, in some little flat or rooms, one who belonged so wholly to Nature—­the poet in him shrank from it.  His passion would be a mere sensuous revel, soon gone; in London, her very simplicity, her lack of all intellectual quality, would make her his secret plaything—­nothing else.  The longer he sat on the rock, with his feet dangling over a greenish pool from which the sea was ebbing, the more clearly he saw this; but it was as if her arms and all of her were slipping slowly, slowly down from him, into the pool, to be carried away out to sea; and her face looking up, her lost face with beseeching eyes, and dark, wet hair-possessed, haunted, tortured him!  He got up at last, scaled the low rock-cliff, and made his way down into a sheltered cove.  Perhaps in the sea he could get back his control—­lose this fever!  And stripping off his clothes, he swam out.  He wanted to tire himself so that nothing mattered and swam recklessly, fast and far; then suddenly, for no reason, felt afraid.  Suppose he could not reach shore again—­suppose the current set him out—­or he got cramp, like Halliday!  He turned to swim in.  The red cliffs looked a long way off.  If he were drowned they would find his clothes.  The Hallidays would know; but Megan perhaps never—­they took no newspaper at the farm.  And Phil Halliday’s words came back to him again:  “A girl at Cambridge I might have Glad I haven’t got her on my mind!” And in that moment of unreasoning fear he vowed he would not have her on his mind.  Then his fear left him; he swam in easily enough, dried himself in the sun, and put on his clothes.  His heart felt sore, but no longer ached; his body cool and refreshed.