set more store on sentiment and passion than those of the opposite sex; also, perhaps, because they instinctively rebel against a male-manufactured morality to which women have to subscribe, largely for the benefit of men whose observance of moral law is more “honoured in the breach than in the observance.”  Indeed, it may be regarded as axiomatic that with nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand the act of bestowing themselves on the man they love is looked upon by them as the merest incident in their lives.  The thousandth, the exception, to whom, like Mavis, such a surrender is a matter of supreme moment, only suffers tortures of remorse when threatened by the loss of the man’s love or by other inconvenient but natural consequences of sexual temerity.

Mavis was recalled to the immediate present by an arm stealing about her neck; she thrilled at the touch of the man who had entered the room unobserved; her lips sought his.

“Ready, darling?” he asked.

“If you are.”

She caught up her sunbonnet, which had been thrown on one side, to hand it to him.

“You put it on me,” she said.

When he had expended several unnecessary moments in adjusting the bonnet, they made as if they would start.

“Got everything you want?” he asked, looking round the room.

“I think so.  Take my sunshade.”

“Right o’.”

“My gloves.”

“I’ve got ’em.”

“My handkerchief.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Now kiss me.”

His all too eager lips met on hers.

“Now we can start,” she remarked.

She stood on the steps of the little hotel, while Perigal grasped a luncheon basket.

“Quick march!” he cried.

“Wait one moment.  I so love the sunlight,” she replied.

“Little pagan!”

She stood silent, while the rays of the September sun warmly caressed her face and neck.

She looked about her, to see that the sky was on all sides a faultless blue, with every prospect of its continuance.

“One of the rare days I love,” she murmured.

She shut her eyes to appreciate further the sun’s warmth.

“If it were only like this all the year round,” she thought.

“This is going to be all my day,” she said to Perigal, who was impatiently awaiting her.  “I want to enjoy every moment of it for all I am worth.”

They turned to the left, walking up the road to the hamlet of Crumplehorn; when they reached the mill, worked by the stream which crosses the road, they turned sharp to the left and continued to ascend.  Their progress was accompanied by the music of moving water, the singing of larks.  When they emerged on the Fowey road, they caught frequent glimpses of the sea, which they lost as they approached Llansallas.  Arrived at this tiny, forgotten village, there was not a sign of the sea, although Perigal had been told