The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. The rest of his attire was nondescript.
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