narrow-minded," she said laughingly. "I am interested in
Monsieur LeConte simply as a study. He is entertaining; he talks
well of his travels, and as for refusing to recognise the
difference between us, why, he never dreamed of such a thing."

Suddenly a peremptory summons home from Annette's father put an
end to the fears of Philip. Annette pouted, but papa must be
obeyed. She blamed Philip and Aunt Nina for telling tales, but
Aunt Nina was uncommunicative, and Philip too obviously cheerful
to derive much satisfaction from.

That night she walked with the fisherman hand in hand on the
sands. The wind from the pines bore the scarcely recognisable,
subtle freshness of early autumn, and the waters had a hint of
dying summer in their sob on the beach.

"You will remember," said the fisherman, "that I have told you
nothing about myself."

"Yes," murmured Annette.

"And you will keep your promises to me?"

"Yes."

"Let me hear you repeat them again."

"I promise you that I will not forget you. I promise you that I
will never speak of you to anyone until I see you again. I
promise that I will then clasp your hand wherever you may be."