gestures and in everything they said. But chiefly he kept a watch on the shop-girl's lover, who made it no secret that he was dwelling in the seventh heaven. Richard sympathised with that man. His glance fell on him softly, benignantly. As the train passed station after station, he wondered what Adeline was doing, now, and now, and now.
* * * * *
On the following Saturday he took tea with Adeline at her lodgings. The train had been late, and by the time they were ready for the evening walk without which no visitor to the seaside calls the day complete, it was close upon nine o'clock. The beach was like a fair or a north-country wake. Conjurers, fire-eaters, and minstrels each drew an audience; but the principal attraction was a man and woman who wore masks and were commonly supposed to be distinguished persons to whom fate had been unkind. They had a piano in a donkey-cart, and the woman sang to the man's accompaniment. Just as Richard and Adeline came up, "The River of Years" was announced for performance.
"Let us listen to this," said Adeline.
They stood at the rim of the crowd. The woman had a rich contralto voice and sang with feeling, and her listeners were generous of both applause and coppers.
"I wonder who she is," Adeline murmured, with a touch of melancholy,—"I wonder who she is. I love that song."
"Oh, probably some broken-down concert-singer," Richard said curtly, "with a drunken husband."
"But she sang beautifully. She made me feel—you know—funny.... A lovely feeling, isn't it?" She looked up at him.
"Yes," he said, smiling at her.
"You're laughing."
"Indeed I'm not. I know what you mean perfectly well. Perhaps I had it just then, too—- a little. But the song is a bit cheap."
"I could listen to it every day, and never get tired of listening. Don't you think that if a song gives anyone that—feeling, there must be some good in it?"
"Of course it's far better than most; but—"
"But not equal to those classical songs you told me about—the first time I saw you, wasn't it? Yes, Schubert: was that the name? I mean to get those, and you must show me the best ones, and play the accompaniments, and then I shall judge for myself."
"I shall make an awful mess of the accompaniments; they're not precisely easy, you know."
"Full of accidentals, are they? I sha'n't like them, then. I never do like that sort of song."
"But you will; you must."
"Must I?" she almost whispered, in tones of gentle, feminine surrender. And after a second or two: "Then I'll try, if it will keep you in a good temper."
They stood fronting the sea. She looked straight ahead into the darkening distance, and then turned round to him with a mock plaintive expression, and they both laughed.
"Wouldn't it be better up by the river," he suggested, "where there are fewer people?"
A little to his surprise, she agreed that it was certainly rather noisy and crowded on the beach on Saturday nights, and they turned their backs to the shore. The moon had risen, and shone at intervals through clouds. For a few score yards they walked in silence. Then Adeline said,—
"It's very dull here during the week for a poor single woman like me. I shall go home on Monday."
"But think of London in this weather."
"I do think of it. I think of the parks and the restaurants and the theatres."
"The good theatres are closed now."
"Well, the music-halls. I've never been in one, and if they are very naughty, then I want to go very much. Besides, there are lots of theatres open. I've read all the theatrical advertisements in the 'Telegraph,' and there must be plenty of things to see. You mayn't think them worth seeing, but I should enjoy any theatre."
"I believe you would," he said. "I used to be like that."
"Up to now I've had no real pleasure—what I call pleasure—and I'm just going to have it. I'll settle down afterwards."
"Didn't your uncle take you out much?"
"I should say he didn't. He took me to a concert once. That was all—in nearly two years. I suppose it never occurred to him that I was leading a dull life."
She made a movement with her hands, as if to put away from her all the drab dailiness of her existence in Carteret Street.
"You can soon recover lost time," Richard said cheerfully.
His fancy was in the rosy future, vividly picturing the light-hearted gaieties, Bohemian, unconventional, artistic, in which he and she should unite. He saw himself and Adeline becoming dearer to each other, and still dearer, her spirit unfolding like a flower, and disclosing new beauties day by day. He saw her eyes glisten when they met his; felt the soft pressure of her hand; heard her voice waver with tenderness, expectant of his avowal. And then came his own bold declaration: "I love you, Adeline," and her warm, willing lips were upon his. God! To dream of such beatitudes!
She had slightly quickened her step. The quays were silent and deserted, save for these two. Presently masts rose vaguely against the sky, and they approached a large ship. Richard leaned over the parapet to decipher the name on her bows. "Juliane," he spelt out.
"That is Norwegian or Danish."
They lingered a few moments, watching the movements of dim figures on deck, listening to the musical chatter of an unknown tongue, and breathing that atmosphere of romance and adventure which foreign vessels carry with them from strange lands; then they walked on.
"Hush!" exclaimed Adeline, stopping, and touching Richard's arm.
The sailors were singing some quaint modern strain.
"What is it?" she asked when they had finished a verse.
"It must be a Norwegian folk-song. It reminds me of Grieg."
Another verse was sung. It began to rain,—warm, summer drops.
"You will be wet," Richard said.
"Never mind."
A third verse followed, and then a new air was started. It rained faster.
"Come under the shelter of the wall here," Richard urged, timidly taking her arm. "I think I see an archway."
"Yes, yes," she murmured, with sweet acquiescence; and they stood together a long time under the archway in silence, while the Norwegian sailors, heedless of weather, sang song after song.
The next morning the sky had cleared again, but there was a mist over the calm sea. They walked idly on the level sands. At first they were almost alone. The mist intensified distances; a group of little children paddling in a foot of water appeared to be miles away. Slowly the mist was scattered by the sun, and the beach became populous with visitors in Sunday attire. In the afternoon they drove to Angmering, Adeline having found no preferable haunt.
"You have no train to catch to-night," she said; "what a relief! Shall you
