At last he said: 

“Well, I think I’ll tootle along to the beach and have a dip.”

“Oh, you’re not going to leave me this morning—­of all mornings?” Philip did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter.

“Would you like me to stay?” he smiled.

“Oh, you darling!  But no, go.  Go.  I want to think of you mastering the salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean.”

He got his hat and sauntered off.

“What rot women talk!” he thought to himself.

But he was pleased and happy and flattered.  She was evidently frightfully gone on him.  As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed.  He knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to himself, if they only knew!  He did want someone to know very badly.  He thought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter.  He would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess, like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse:  he would say she was French, because—­well, she had lived in France so long that she almost was, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don’t you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her first in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him.  He made a delicate idyl of it:  the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting.  There was something Meredithian about it:  it was not quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inexpressibly charming.  Philip’s heart beat quickly.  He was so delighted with his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine.  He thought of the object of his affections.  She had the most adorable little nose and large brown eyes—­he would describe her to Hayward—­and masses of soft brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red rose.  How old was she?  Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette.  Her laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.

“What are you thinking about?”

Philip stopped suddenly.  He was walking slowly home.

“I’ve been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile.  You are absent-minded.”

Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise.

“I thought I’d come and meet you.”

“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said.

“Did I startle you?”

“You did a bit,” he admitted.

He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same.  There were eight pages of it.