It was a day in late September, but the warmth of it was as a
dream of summer returned. The season was nearly over, or he had not
betaken himself thither, but the spell of heat had prolonged it unduly.
It had been something of a shock to him to find the place still occupied
by a buzzing crowd of visitors. He never came to it till he judged the
holidays to be practically over. For he loved it only when empty. His
idea of rest was solitude.
He wondered how long this pearly weather would last, and scanned the sky
for a cloud. In vain! There was no cloud all round that blue horizon,
and behind him the cliffs stood stark against an azure sky. Summer was
lingering, and even he had not the heart to wish her gone.
Something splashed noisily on the other side of the rocky breakwater.
Something squeaked and gurgled. The man frowned. He had tramped a
considerable distance to secure privacy. He had his new novel to think
out. This invasion was intolerable. He had not even smoked the first
pipe of his meditations. Impatiently he prepared to rise and depart.
But in that moment a voice accosted him, and in spite of himself he
paused. "I want to get over the breakwater," said the voice.
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