“Then I shall go with you.”

“As you like.  I shall leave by the express at five minutes past nine.”

“Then I shall be at the station.  But at least I may walk home with you?”

“No, please.  If you wish me to think you are sincere,—­if you wish us still to be friends—­stay till I have left the pier.—­Good night.”

He muttered a return, and stood watching her as she walked quietly away.

When it was nearly midnight, Ida lay on her bed, dressed, as she had lain since her return home.  For more than an hour she had cried and sobbed in blank misery, cried as never since the bitter days long ago, just after her mother’s death.  Then, the fit over, something like a reaction of calm followed, and as she lay perfectly still in the darkness, her regular breathing would have led one to believe her asleep.  But she was only thinking, and in deed very far from sleep The long day in the open air had so affected her eyes that, as she looked up at the ceiling, it seemed to her to be a blue space, with light clouds constantly flitting across it.  Presently this impression became painful, and a growing restlessness made her rise.  The heat of the room was stifling, for just above was the roof, upon which all day the sun had poured its rays.  She threw open the window, and drank in the air.  The night was magnificent, flooded with warm moonlight, and fragrant with sea breathings.  Ida felt an irresistible desire to leave the house and go down to the shore, which she could not see from her window; the tide, she remembered, would just now be full, and to walk by it in the solitude of midnight would bring her that peace and strength of soul she so much needed.  She put on her hat and cloak, and went downstairs.  The front door was only latched, and, as she had her key, no doubt she would be able to let herself in at any hour.

The streets were all but deserted, and, when she came to the beach, no soul was anywhere visible.  She walked towards the place where she had spent the afternoon with Waymark, then onwards still further to the east, till there was but a narrow space between the water and the cliffs.  Breakers there were none, not more ripple at the clear tide-edge than on the border of a little lake.  So intense was the silence that every now and then could be distinctly heard a call on one of the fishing-boats lying some distance from shore.  The town was no longer in sight.

It was close even here; what little breeze there was brushed the face like the warm wing of a passing bird.  Ida dipped her hands in the water and sprinkled it upon her forehead.  Then she took off her boots and stockings, and walked with her feet in the ripples.  A moment after she stopped, and looked all around, as if hesitating at some thought, and wishing to see that her solitude was secure.  Just then the sound of a clock came very faintly across the still air, striking the hour of one.  She stepped from the water a few paces, and began hastily to put off her clothing; in a moment her feet were again in the ripples, and she was walking out from the beach, till her gleaming body was hidden.  Then she bathed, breasting the full flow with delight, making the sundered and broken water flash myriad reflections of the moon and stars.