Lessingham," Philippa insisted, "exactly what are you
thinking of? You looked so dark and mysterious from the ridge below
that I've climbed up on purpose to ask you."
Lessingham held out his hand to steady her. They were standing on
a sharp spur of the cliffs, the north wind blowing in their faces,
thrashing into little flecks of white foam the sea below, on which
the twilight was already resting. For a moment or two neither of
them could speak.
"I was thinking of my country," he confessed. "I was looking
through the shadows there, right across the North Sea."
"To Germany?"
He shook his head.
"Further away--to Sweden."
"I forgot," she murmured. "You looked as though you were posing for
a statue of some one in exile," she observed. "Come, let us go a
little lower down--unless you want to stay here and be blown to
pieces."
"I was on my way back to the hotel," he answered quickly, as he
followed her lead, "but to tell you the truth I was feeling a little
lonely."
"That," she declared, "is your own fault. I asked you to come to
Mainsail Haul whenever you felt inclined."
"As I have felt inclined ever since the evening I arrived," he
remarked with a smile, "you might, perhaps, by this time have had
a little too much of me."
"On the contrary," she told him, "I quite expected you yesterday
afternoon, to tell me how you like the place and what you have been
doing.
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