CHAPTER VI.

"Thou knowest how, alike, to give and take gentleness in due season
... the noble temper of thy sires shineth forth in thee."--PINDAR.


It was a clear mild Sunday afternoon of November;--pale sunlight, pale
sky, long films of laminated cloud. From the base of orange-tawny
cliffs, the sands swept out with the tide, shining like rippled silk,
where the sea had uncovered them; and sunlight was spilled in pools and
tiny furrows: the sea itself grey-green and very still, with streaks and
blotches of purple shadow flung by no visible cloud. The beauty and the
mystery of them fascinated Roy, who was irresistibly attracted by the
thing he could not understand.

He was sitting alone, near the edge of a wooded cliff; troubles
forgotten for the moment; imbibing it all....

His fifteen months of reprieve had flown faster than anyone could have
believed. It was over--everything was over. No more lessons with Tara
under their beech-tree. No more happy hours in the studio, exploring the
mysteries of 'maths' and Homer, of form and colour, with his father, who
seemed to know the 'Why' of everything. Worse than all--no more Mummy,
to make the whole world beautiful with the colours of her saris and the
loveliness and the dearness of her face, and her laugh and her voice.

It was all over. He was at school: not Coombe Friars, decreed by Aunt