She was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching-block and camp-stool.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Good evening,” said she.

It is curious how different the same words can sound, when spoken by different people.  My “good evening” might have been that of a man with a particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing something more than usually ignoble.  She spoke like a rather offended angel.

“It’s a lovely evening,” I went on pluckily.

“Very.”

“The sunset!”

“Yes.”

“Er—­”

She raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faint suggestion of surprise, and gazed through me for a moment at some object a couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again, leaving me with a vague feeling that there was something wrong with my personal appearance.

Very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp-stool, and sat down.  Neither of us spoke a word.  I watched her while she filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened her paint-box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching-block in position.

She began to paint.

Now, by all the laws of good taste, I should before this have made a dignified exit.  It was plain that I was not to be regarded as an essential ornament of this portion of the Ware Cliff.  By now, if I had been the Perfect Gentleman, I ought to have been a quarter of a mile away.

But there is a definite limit to what a man can do.  I remained.

The sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea.  Phyllis’ hair was tinged with it.  Little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below.  Except for the song of a distant blackbird, running through its repertoire before retiring for the night, everything was silent.

She sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never a word for me—­standing patiently and humbly behind her.

“Miss Derrick,” I said.

She half turned her head.

“Yes.”

“Why won’t you speak to me?” I said.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Why won’t you speak to me?”

“I think you know, Mr. Garnet.”

“It is because of that boat accident?”

“Accident!”

“Episode,” I amended.

She went on painting in silence.  From where I stood I could see her profile.  Her chin was tilted.  Her expression was determined.

“Is it?” I said.

“Need we discuss it?”

“Not if you do not wish it.”

I paused.

“But,” I added, “I should have liked a chance to defend myself. . . .  What glorious sunsets there have been these last few days.  I believe we shall have this sort of weather for another month.”

“I should not have thought that possible.”

“The glass is going up,” I said.

“I was not talking about the weather.”