* * *

In the afternoon she suffered from impatient expectancy.  If Barfoot came to-day—­she imagined him somewhere in the neighbour hood, approaching Seascale as the time of his appointment drew near—­ would he call at her lodgings?  The address she had not given him, but doubtless he had obtained it from his cousin.  Perhaps he would prefer to meet her unexpectedly—­not a difficult thing in this little place, with its handful of residents and visitors.  Certain it was she desired his arrival.  Her heart leapt with joy in the thought that this very evening might bring him.  She wished to study him under new conditions, and—­possibly—­to talk with him even more frankly than ever yet, for there would be opportunity enough.

About six o’clock a train coming from the south stopped at the station, which was visible from Rhoda’s sitting-room window.  She had been waiting for this moment.  She could not go to the station, and did not venture even to wait anywhere in sight of the exit.  Whether any passenger had alighted must remain uncertain.  If Everard had arrived by this train, doubtless he would go to the hotel, which stood only a few yards from the line.  He would take a meal and presently come forth.

Having allowed half an hour to elapse, she dressed and walked shoreward.  Seascale has no street, no shops; only two or three short rows of houses irregularly placed on the rising ground above the beach.  To cross the intervening railway, Rhoda could either pass through the little station, in which case she would also pass the hotel and be observable from its chief windows, or descend by a longer road which led under a bridge, and in this way avoid the hotel altogether.  She took the former route.  On the sands were a few scattered people, and some children subdued to Sunday decorum.  The tide was rising.  She went down to the nearest tract of hard sand, and stood there for a long time, a soft western breeze playing upon her face.

If Barfoot were here he would now be coming out to look for her.  From a distance he might not recognize her figure, clad as she was in a costume such as he had never seen her wearing.  She might venture now to walk up towards the dry, white sandheaps, where the little convolvulus grew in abundance, and other flowers of which she neither knew nor cared to learn the names.  Scarcely had she turned when she saw Everard approaching, still far off, but unmistakable.  He signalled by taking off his hat, and quickly was beside her.

‘Did you know me before I happened to look round?’ she asked laughingly.

’Of course I did.  Up there by the station I caught sight of you.  Who else bears herself as you do—­with splendid disdain of common mortals?’

‘Please don’t make me think that my movements are ridiculous.’

’They are superb.  The sea has already touched your cheeks.  But I am afraid you have had abominable weather.’

‘Yes, rather bad; but there’s hope to-day.  Where do you come from?’