“It will be high tide in half an hour,” Andrew said, “and the sea will go down fast enough then.”

“It may not,” she answered hopefully.  “I rather believe that there is another storm blowing up.”

“There will be no dinner for you,” he warned her.

“That I can endure cheerfully,” she declared.  “I am sick of dinners.  I hate them.  They come much too soon, and one has always the same things to eat.  I am quite sure that I shall dine quite nicely with you, Mr. Andrew.”

He glanced at his watch and looked out seaward.  It was even as she had said.  There were indications of another storm.  Even while they stood there the large raindrops fell.

“We had better go in,” Andrew said.  “It is going to rain again.”

She clapped her hands, and danced lightly back into the house.  She subsided into his easy chair and clasped her hands over her head.

“Come and stand there on the hearthrug,” she demanded, “and tell me stories—­stories of fishing adventures and storms, and things that have happened to yourself.  Never mind how ordinary they may seem.  I want to hear them.  Remember that everything is new to me.  Everything is interesting.”  He accepted the inevitable at last, and they talked until the twilight filled the room.  It was strange how much and yet how little she knew.  The fascination of her worldly ignorance was a thing which grew continually upon him.  Suddenly she burst into a little peal of laughter.

“I was wondering,” she remarked, “whether they are waiting dinner for me.  I can just imagine how frightened they all are.”

“I had forgotten all about them,” Andrew confessed.  “Wait a moment.”

He left the room and walked out on to the beach.  The sea was still dashing its spray high over the roof of the little cottage.  The stones outside were wet to within a few feet of his door.  He looked across toward the mainland.  Far away he fancied that he could see men carrying lanterns like will-o’-the-wisps, in that part of the marshes near the Hall.  He retraced his steps to the sitting-room.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that it will not be possible to take you back to-night.  The sea is still too rough for my boat, and shows no sign of going down.”

She clapped her hands.

“I am very glad,” she declared frankly.  “I would very much rather stay here than go back.  Shall we go and see what there is for dinner?  I can cook quite well.  I learnt at the convent, but I have never had a chance to really try what I can do.”

He smiled.

“Well,” he said, “you can do exactly what you like with the contents of my larder, but so far as I am concerned, I must go.”

“Go?” she repeated wonderingly.  “If I cannot leave the island, surely you cannot!”

“Yes!” he answered.  “There is another way.  I am going to swim over to the mainland and let them know at the Hall where you are.”