she reached a spot from which she could look down on the pebbly beach lying some three hundred feet below her, and on the soft shining ripple of the quiet waters as they moved themselves with a pleasant sound on the long strand which lay stretched in a line from the spot beneath her out to the point of the island.  The evening was warm, and almost transparent in its clearness, and very quiet.  There was no sound even of a breeze.  When she seated herself close upon the margin of the cliff, she heard the small waves moving the stones which they washed, and the sound was as the sound of little children’s voices, very distant.  Looking down, she could see through the wonderful transparency of the water, and the pebbles below it were bright as diamonds, and the sands were burnished like gold.  And each tiny silent wavelet as it moved up toward the shore and lost itself at last in its own effort, stretched itself the whole length of the strand.  Such brightness on the seashore she had never seen before, nor had she ever listened as now she listened to that infantine babble of the baby waves, She sat there close upon the margin, on a seat of chalk which the winds had made, looking, listening, and forgetting for a while that she was Lady Ongar whom people did not know, who lived alone in the world with Sophie Gordeloup for her friend—­and whose lover was betrothed to another woman.  She had been there perhaps half an hour, and had learned to be at home on her perch, sitting there in comfort, with no desire to move, when a voice which she well knew at the first sound startled her, and she rose quickly to her feet.  “Lady Ongar,” said the voice, “are you not rather near the edge?” As she turned round there was Count Pateroff with his hand already upon her dress, so that no danger might be produced by the suddenness of his speech.

“There is nothing to fear,” she said, stepping back from her seat.  As she did so, he dropped his hand from her dress, and, raising it to his head, lifted his hat from his forehead.  “You will excuse me, I hope, Lady Ongar,” he said, “for having taken this mode of speaking to you.”

“I certainly shall not excuse you; nor, further than I can help it, shall I listen to you.”

“There are a few words which I must say.”

“Count Pateroff, I beg that you will leave me.  This is treacherous and unmanly—­and can do you no good.  By what right do you follow me here?”

“I follow you for your own good, Lady Ongar; I do it that you may hear me say a few words that are necessary for you to hear.”

“I will hear no words from you—­that is, none willingly.  By this time you ought to know me and to understand me.”  She had begun to walk up the hill very rapidly, and for a moment or two he had thought that she would escape him; but her breath had soon failed her, and she found herself compelled to stand while he regained his place beside her.  This he had not done without an effort, and for some minutes they were both silent. “it is very beautiful,” at last he said, pointing away over the sea.