her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if
she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual,
an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled
to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again.

"Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?"

Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield's lap.

"Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe here?"

"No-o," Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. "I'm undressing farther along.
I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember."

"Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry
Kember. Beryl knew it.

Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old
mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young...

"You look very pleased," said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on the
stones, her arms round her knees, smoking.

"It's such a lovely day," said Beryl, smiling down at her.

"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knew better
than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something
better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking
woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was long and narrow and
exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and