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The pink clouds faded into a rosy shadow, then that in its turn
gave way to a sky faintly green and pointed with stars. Grey mist
enveloped the meadows and the river, and the birds cried no longer. There
was a smell of onions and rank seaweed in the air.
Falk's love-story pursued at first its usual realistic course. She was
there near the waterfall waiting for him; they had very little to say to
one another. She was depressed to-night, and he fancied that she had been
crying. She was not so attractive to him in such a mood. He liked her best
when she was intolerant, scornful, aloof. To-night, although she showed no
signs of caring for him, she surrendered herself absolutely. He could do
what he liked with her. But he did not want to do anything with her.
She leaned over the Seatown wall looking desolately in front of her.
At last she turned round to him and asked him what she had asked him
before:
"What do you come after me for?"
"I don't know," he said.
"It isn't because you love me."
"I don't know."
"_I_ know--there's no mistakin' it when it's there.


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