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Merefleet smiled a little.

“Well, if she likes to run the risk it’s not your fault,” he said.

“No, sir. It ain’t. But that don’t make me any easier. She’s a pretty young lady, too,” the man added. “Maybe you’ve seen her, sir.”

Merefleet shook his head. He had heard her, and he had no desire to improve his acquaintance with her.

“As pretty a young lady as you would wish to see,” continued the fisherman reflectively. “Wonderful, she is. ‘Tain’t often we get such a picture in this here part of the country. Ever been to America, sir?”

“Just come home,” said Merefleet.

“Are all the ladies over there as pretty as this one, I wonder?” said his new acquaintance in an awed tone.

“She seems to have made a considerable impression,” said Merefleet, with a laugh. “What is the lady like?”

But the man’s descriptive powers were not equal to his admiration. “I couldn’t tell you what she’s like, sir,” he said. “But she’s that sort of young lady as makes you feel you oughtn’t to talk to her with your hat on. Ever met that sort of lady, sir?”

Merefleet uttered a short laugh. The man’s simplicity amused him.

“I can’t say I have,” he said carelessly. “Good-looking women are not always the best sort, in my opinion.”

“That’s very true, sir,” assented his companion thoughtfully. “There’s my wife, for instance. She’s as good a woman as you’d find anywhere, but her best friend couldn’t call her handsome, nor even plain.”

And Merefleet laughed again. The man’s talk had diverted his thoughts. The intolerable sense of desolation had been lifted from his spirit. He began to feel he had been somewhat unnecessarily irritated by a very small matter.

He lighted a cigar and presented one to his new friend. “I shall get you to row me out for a couple of hours to-morrow,” he said. “By the way, did you ever know a man called Quiller who had some fishing craft in these parts twenty years ago?”

The man beamed at the question. “That’s my father, sir. He lives along with my wife and the kids. Will you come and see him, sir? Oh, yes, he’s well and hearty. But he’s getting on in years, is dad. He don’t go out with the luggers now. You’ll come and see him, eh, sir?”

“To-morrow,” said Merefleet, turning. “He will remember me, perhaps. No, I won’t give you my name. The old chap shall find out for himself. Good-night.”

And he began to saunter back towards his hotel.

The searchlight of a man-of-war anchored outside the harbour was flashing over the shore as he went. He watched the long shaft of light with half-involuntary attention. He noted in an idle way various details along the cliffs that were revealed by the white glow. It touched the hotel at last and rested there for the fraction of a minute.

And then a strange thing happened.

Looking upwards as he was, with fascinated eyes, following the slanting line of light, Merefleet saw a sight which was destined to live in his memory for all the rest of his life, strive as he might to rid himself of it.

As in a dream-picture he saw the figure of a girl standing on the steps of the terrace in front of the hotel. The searchlight discovered her and lingered upon her. She stood in the brilliant line of light, a splendid vision of almost unearthly beauty. Her neck and arms were bare, curved with the exquisite grace of a Grecian statue. Her face was turned towards the light–a marvellous face, touched with a faint, triumphant smile. She was dressed in a robe of pure white that fell around her in long, soft folds.

Merefleet gazed upon the wonder before him and asked himself one breathless question: “Is that–a woman?”

And the answer seemed to spring from the very depth of his being: “No! A goddess!”

It was the most gloriously perfect picture of beauty he had ever looked upon.