"I will go to the station," she said. "I will go back--"
"The last train for anywhere leaves at 7.42."
"I will appeal to the police--"
"You don't know them."
"I will tell these hotel people."
"They will turn you out of doors. You're in such a thoroughly
false position now. They don't understand unconventionality, down
here."
She stamped her foot. "If I wander about the streets all night--"
she said.
"You who have never been out alone after dusk? Do you know what
the streets of a charming little holiday resort are like--"
"I don't care," she said. "I can go to the clergyman here."
"He's a charming man. Unmarried. And men are really more alike
than you think. And anyhow--"
"Well?"
"How CAN you explain the last two nights to anyone now? The
mischief is done, Jessie."
"You CUR," she said, and suddenly put her hand to her breast. He
thought she meant to faint, but she stood, with the colour gone
from her face.
"No," he said. "I love you."
"Love!" said she.
"Yes--love."
"There are ways yet," she said, after a pause.
"Not for you. You are too full of life and hope yet for, what is
it?--not the dark arch nor the black flowing river. Don't you
think of it. You'll only shirk it when the moment comes, and turn
it all into comedy."
She turned round abruptly from him and stood looking out across
the parade at the shining sea over which the afterglow of day
fled before the rising moon. He maintained his attitude. The
blinds were still up, for she had told the waiter not to draw
them.
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