she had had practically no feminine society since she came. And Jane
was not especially inspiring, not like Tristram, who seemed to carry
one's imagination back to Viking days.

Cope was immensely enthusiastic about Tristram. "If I could paint
figures as I want to," he said, "I'd do Tristram as 'The Islander.'
One feels that he belongs here as inevitably as the moors or the sands
or the sea. Perhaps it is he who ought to be in bronze on the bluff,
instead of the Indian."

"But he'd have to face the sea," said Becky.

"Yes," Cope agreed, "he would. He loves it and his ancestors lived by
it. I'll stick to my Indian and the moor."

Becky gathered up her letters. "It is time for lunch, and Jane doesn't
like to be kept waiting. Won't you lunch with us? Grandfather will be
delighted."

"I shall get to be a perpetual guest. I feel as if I were taking
advantage of your hospitality."

"We shouldn't ask you if we didn't want you."

"Then I'll come."

They walked up the beach together. Becky was muffled in her red cape,
Cope had a sweater under his coat. The air was sharp and clear as
crystal.