The large red faces lying on the bandanna handkerchiefs stared up at Jacob.  Jacob stared down at them.  Holding his bucket very carefully, Jacob then jumped deliberately and trotted away very nonchalantly at first, but faster and faster as the waves came creaming up to him and he had to swerve to avoid them, and the gulls rose in front of him and floated out and settled again a little farther on.  A large black woman was sitting on the sand.  He ran towards her.

“Nanny!  Nanny!” he cried, sobbing the words out on the crest of each gasping breath.

The waves came round her.  She was a rock.  She was covered with the seaweed which pops when it is pressed.  He was lost.

There he stood.  His face composed itself.  He was about to roar when, lying among the black sticks and straw under the cliff, he saw a whole skull—­perhaps a cow’s skull, a skull, perhaps, with the teeth in it.  Sobbing, but absent-mindedly, he ran farther and farther away until he held the skull in his arms.

“There he is!” cried Mrs. Flanders, coming round the rock and covering the whole space of the beach in a few seconds.  “What has he got hold of?  Put it down, Jacob!  Drop it this moment!  Something horrid, I know.  Why didn’t you stay with us?  Naughty little boy!  Now put it down.  Now come along both of you,” and she swept round, holding Archer by one hand and fumbling for Jacob’s arm with the other.  But he ducked down and picked up the sheep’s jaw, which was loose.

Swinging her bag, clutching her parasol, holding Archer’s hand, and telling the story of the gunpowder explosion in which poor Mr. Curnow had lost his eye, Mrs. Flanders hurried up the steep lane, aware all the time in the depths of her mind of some buried discomfort.

There on the sand not far from the lovers lay the old sheep’s skull without its jaw.  Clean, white, wind-swept, sand-rubbed, a more unpolluted piece of bone existed nowhere on the coast of Cornwall.  The sea holly would grow through the eye-sockets; it would turn to powder, or some golfer, hitting his ball one fine day, would disperse a little dust—­No, but not in lodgings, thought Mrs. Flanders.  It’s a great experiment coming so far with young children.  There’s no man to help with the perambulator.  And Jacob is such a handful; so obstinate already.

“Throw it away, dear, do,” she said, as they got into the road; but Jacob squirmed away from her; and the wind rising, she took out her bonnet-pin, looked at the sea, and stuck it in afresh.  The wind was rising.  The waves showed that uneasiness, like something alive, restive, expecting the whip, of waves before a storm.  The fishing-boats were leaning to the water’s brim.  A pale yellow light shot across the purple sea; and shut.  The lighthouse was lit.  “Come along,” said Betty Flanders.  The sun blazed in their faces and gilded the great blackberries trembling out from the hedge which Archer tried to strip as they passed.