When eight o’clock came, he was leaning over the end of the pier, at the appointed spot, still busy in thought.  There came a touch on his arm.

“Well, are you thinking how you can make a book out of my story?”

The touch, the voice, the smile,—­how all his sophistry was swept away in a rush of tenderness and delight!

“I must wait for the end of it,” he returned, holding out his hand, which she did not take.

“The end?—­Oh, you must invent one.  Ends in real life are so commonplace and uninteresting.”

“Commonplace or not,” said Waymark, with some lack of firmness in his voice, “the end of your story should not be an unhappy one, if I had the disposing of it.  And I might have—­but for one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked, with sudden interest.

“My miserable poverty.  If I only had money—­money”—­

“Money!” she exclaimed, turning away almost angrily.  Then she added, with the coldness which she did not often use, but which, when she did, chilled and checked him—­“I don’t understand you.”

He pointed with a bitter smile down to the sands.

“Look at that gold of the sunset in the pools the tide has left.  It is the most glorious colour in nature, but it makes me miserable by reminding me of the metal it takes its name from.”

She looked at him with eyes which had in them a strange wonder, sad at first, then full of scorn, of indignation.  And then she laughed, drawing herself away from him.  The laugh irritated him.  He experienced a terrible revulsion of feeling, from the warmth and passion which had possessed him, to that humiliation, which he could not bear.

And just now a number of people came and took their stands close by, in a gossiping group.  Ida had half turned away, and was looking at the golden pools.  He tried to say something, but his tongue was dry, and the word would not come.  Presently, she faced him again, and said, in very much her ordinary tone—­

“I was going to tell you that I have just had news from London, which makes it necessary for me to go back to-morrow.  I shall have to take an early train.”

“This is because I have offended you,” Waymark said, moving nearer to her.  “You had no thought of going before that.”

“I am not surprised that you refuse to believe me,” returned Ida, smiling very faintly.  “Still, it is the truth.  And now I must go in again;—­I am very tired.”

“No,” he exclaimed as she moved away, “you must not go in till—­ till you have forgotten me.  At least come away to a quiet place, where I can speak freely to you; these people—­”

“To-morrow morning,” she said, waving her hand wearily.  “I can’t talk now—­and indeed there is no need to speak of this at all.  I have forgotten it.”

“No, you have not; how could you?—­And you will not go to-morrow; you shall not.”

“Yes, I must,” she returned firmly.