“The point of all this biography is that I’m usually somewhat absurdly touched by the friendship of an attractive woman of my own sort—­or, rather, of the sort I might have been.  That is my attitude toward you; you are amiable to me; I like you.

   “Now, why am I not in love with you?  I’ve told you that it’s
   because I will not let myself be in love with you.  Why?

“Dear—­it’s just because you have been nice to me.  Do you understand?  No, you don’t.  Then—­to go back to what I spoke of—­I am not free to marry.  I am married.  Now you know.  And there’s no way out of it that I can see.

“If I were in love with you I’d simply take you.  I am only your
friend—­and I can’t do you that injury.  Curious, isn’t it, how
such a blackguard as I am can be so fastidious!

“But that’s the truth.  And that, too, may explain a number of
other matters.

“So you see how it is, dear.  The world is full of a number of
things.  One of them signs himself your friend,

“LOUIS MALCOURT.”

Virginia’s eyes remained on the written page long after she had finished reading.  They closed once or twice, opened again, blue-green, expressionless.  Looking aloft after a while she tried to comprehend that the sky was still overhead; but it seemed to be a tricky, unsteady, unfamiliar sky, wavering, crawling across space like the wrinkled sea beneath it.  Confused, she turned, peering about; the beach, too, was becoming unstable; and, through the sudden rushing darkness that obscured things, she tried to rise, then dropped full length along the sand.

A few seconds later—­or perhaps minutes, or perhaps hours—­she found herself seated perfectly conscious, mechanically drying the sea-water from her wet face; while beside her knelt a red-capped figure in wet bathing-dress, both hands brimming with sea-water which ran slowly between the delicate fingers and fell, sparkling.

“Do you feel better?” asked Shiela gently.

“Yes,” she said, perfectly conscious and vaguely surprised.  Presently she looked down at her skirts, groped about, turned, searching with outstretched fingers.  Then her eyes fell on the letter.  It lay on the sand beside her sunshade, carefully weighted with a shell.

Neither she nor the girl beside her spoke.  Virginia adjusted her hat and veil, sat motionless for a few moments, then picked up the water-stained letter and, rolling it, placed it in her wet glove.  A slow flame burned in her pallid cheeks; her eyes remained downcast.

Shiela said with quick sympathy:  “I never fainted in my life.  Is it painful?”

“No—­it’s only rather horrid....  I had been walking in the sun.  It is very hot on the beach, I think; don’t you?”

“Very,” said the girl gravely.

Virginia, head still bent, was touching her wet lace waist with her wetter gloves.