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She looked up at him quickly. She was sitting on her doorstep and the August sunlight was on her hair. There were wonderful glints of gold among the dark curls.

“Shall you go away, then?” she asked.

“I may–soon,” he said.

She was silent, bending over some work that she had taken up. The man looked down at the bowed head. The old look of perplexity, of wonder, was in his eyes.

“What shall you do?” he said abruptly.

She made a startled movement, but did not raise her eyes.

“I shall just–go on,” she said, in a voice that was hardly audible.

“Not here,” he said. “You will be lonely.”

There was an unusual note of mastery in his voice. She glanced up, and met his eyes resolutely for a moment.

“I am used to loneliness,” she said slowly.

“But you don’t prefer it?” he said.

She bent her head again.

“Yes, I prefer it,” she said.

There followed a pause. Then abruptly Durant asked a question.

“Are you still sorry for me?” he said.

“No,” said Molly.

He bent slightly towards her. Movement had become much easier to him of late.

“Molly,” he said very gently, “that is the kindest thing you have ever said.”

She laughed in a queer, shaky note over her work.

He bent nearer.

“You have done a tremendous lot for me,” he said, speaking very softly. “I wonder if I dare ask of you–one thing more?”

She did not answer. He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Molly,” he said, “will you marry me?”

“No,” said Molly under her breath.

“Ah!” he said. “Forgive me for asking!”

She looked up at him then with that in her eyes which he could not understand.

“Mr. Durant,” she said, steadily, “I thank you very much, and it isn’t–that. But I can only be your friend.”

“Never anything more, Molly?” he said, and he smiled at her, very gently, very kindly, but without tenderness.

“No, sir,” Molly said in the same steady tone. “Never anything more.”

* * *

“Well,” said Gregory Mountfort on the following day, “this place has done wonders for you, Hugh. You’re a different man.”

“I believe I am,” said Hugh.

He spoke with his eyes upon a bouquet of poppies and corn that had been left at his door without any message early that morning. It was eloquent to him of a friendship that did not mean to be lightly extinguished, but his heart was heavy notwithstanding. He had begun to desire something greater than friendship.

“Physically,” said Mountfort, “you are stronger than I ever expected to see you again. You don’t suffer much pain now, do you?”

“No, not much,” said Durant.

He turned to stare out of his open window at the sunlit sea. His eyes were full of weariness.

“Look here,” the doctor said. “You’re not an invalid any longer. I should leave this place if I were you. Go abroad! Go round the world! Don’t stagnate any longer! It isn’t worthy of you.”

Hugh Durant shook his head.

“It’s no good trying to float a stranded hulk, dear fellow,” he said. “Don’t attempt it! I am better off where I am.”

“You ought to get married,” his friend returned brusquely. “You weren’t created for the lonely life.”

“I shall never marry,” Durant said quietly.

And Mountfort was disappointed. He wondered if he were still vexing his soul over the irrevocable.

He had motored down from town, and in the afternoon he carried his patient off for a thirty-mile spin. They went through the depths of the country, through tiny villages hidden among the hills, through long stretches of pine woods, over heather-covered uplands. But though it did him good, Durant was conscious of keenest pleasure when, returning, they ran into view of the sea. He felt that the shore and the sand-dunes were his own peculiar heritage.

Mountfort steered for the village scattered over the top of the cliff. Durant had persuaded him to remain for the night, and he had to send a telegram. They puffed up a steep, winding hill to the post-office, and the doctor got out.