"This seems the queerest stretch of country," he went on; "long
spits of sand jutting right out into the sea, dikes and creeks
--miles and miles of them. Now, I wonder, is it low tide or high?
Low, I should think, because of the sea-shine on the sand there."

She glanced out of the window.

"The tide," she told him, "is almost at its lowest."

"You live in this neighbourhood, perhaps?" he enquired.

"I do," she assented.

"Sort of country one might get very fond of," he ventured.

She glanced at him from the depths of her grey eyes.

"Do you think so?" she rejoined coldly. "For my part, I hate it."

He was surprised at the unexpected emphasis of her tone--the first
time, indeed, that she had shown any signs of interest in the
conversation.

"Kind of dull I suppose you find it," he remarked pensively, looking
out across the waste of lavender-grown marshes, sand hummocks piled
with seaweed, and a far distant line of pebbled shore. "And yet, I
don't know. I have lived by the sea a good deal, and however
monotonous it may seem at first, there's always plenty of change,
really. Tide and wind do such wonderful work."