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I'm not nearly so young as I look. I only dress like this when I want to enjoy myself. Rosa Mundi says" her eyes were suddenly merry "that I'm not respectable. Now, don't you think that sounds rather funny?" "From her yes," said Courteney. "You don't like her?" The shrewd curiosity of a child who desires understanding upon a forbidden subject was in the question. The man evaded it.
Randal Courteney was no longer dissembling his interest. He had laid his pipe aside, and was watching with unvarying intentness the downcast childish face. He asked no questions. There was something in the low-spoken words that held him silent. Perhaps he feared to probe too deep.
It was as if some adverse fate were at work, driving him, impelling him. The soft eyes sparkled into laughter. "I know who you are," chuckled the gay voice on a high note of merriment. "You are Randal Courteney, the writer. It's not a bit of good trying to hide, because everybody knows." He attempted a frown, but failed in its achievement.
Was the water blue, or was it purple that day? Randal Courteney stretched his lazy length on the shady side of the great natural breakwater that protected Hurley Bay from the Atlantic rollers, and wondered. It was a day in late September, but the warmth of it was as a dream of summer returned.
The tide was coming in, and the dashing water filled all the world with its music. A brisk wind was blowing, and the waves were high. It was the sort of sea that Courteney revelled in, and he trusted that, at that early hour, he would be free from all intrusion. So accustomed to privacy was he that he had come to regard the place almost as his own.
Randal Courteney marked it all gravely, without contempt. It was her hour. No word from her had reached him, but that night he would meet her face to face. Through days and nights of troubled thought, the resolve had grown within him. To-night it should bear fruit. He would not rest again until he had seen her. For his peace of mind was gone.
He remembered how once young Eric Baron had told him that she needed popularity as a flower needs the sun. His rose of the world had not been created to bloom unseen. The boy had been absurdly long-suffering, unbelievably blind. How bitter, how cruel, had been his disillusion, Courteney could only guess. Had she ever cared, ever regretted, he wondered? But no, he was sure she had not.
But both dropped out on the claim that they feared for their standing in academy work." "A pair like that," muttered Captain Courteney, "ought to be excused for any kind of recitations during the football season. Jove! Look at that -Prescott has made a touchdown" "Prescott carried the ball," amended Lieutenant Barney, "but Holmes certainly had as much to do with the touchdown as Prescott did."
The fiery charm of her, her passionate vitality, made that impossible. Courteney finished his dinner and went out. The night was almost as hot as the day had been. He turned his back on the Pier, that was lighted from end to end, and walked away down the long parade. He was beginning to wish himself out of the place.
Miss Briggs, as she went back to her room, chanced to pass Miss Courteney, who had come to the door of the classroom to speak to some one, and Miss Briggs detained her, rather against her will, saying, 'Oh Miss Courteney, I met Vava Wharton strolling in just now.
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