tall poppy--you know the slight droop of a poppy's head, and
the way the wind sways its stem.... She is a human poppy, her fuzzy
dark hair is like a poppy's lustreless black heart, she has a poppy's
tantalising attraction and repulsion, something fatal, or rather
fateful. She came walking up to my new friend, then caught sight of me,
and stopped dead.

"That," she said to me, "is Zachary Pearse. This," she said to him, "is
our lodger." She said it with a wonderful soft malice. She wanted to
scratch me, and she scratched. Half an hour later I was in the yard,
when up came this fellow Pearse.

"Glad to know you," he said, looking thoughtfully at the pigs.

"You're a writer, aren't you?"

"A sort of one," I said.

"If by any chance," he said suddenly, "you're looking for a job, I could
put something in your way. Walk down to the beach with me, and I'll tell
you; my boat's at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts."

It was very hot, and I had no desire whatever to go down to the beach--I
went, all the same. We had not gone far when John Ford and Dan Treffry
came into the lane. Our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but soon
recovered himself. We met in the middle of the lane, where there was
hardly room to pass. John Ford, who looked very haughty, put on his
pince-nez and stared at Pearse.

"Good-day!" said Pearse; "fine weather! I've been up to ask Pasiance
to come for a sail. Wednesday we thought, weather permitting; this
gentleman's coming. Perhaps you'll come too, Mr. Treffry. You've never
seen my place. I'll give you lunch, and show you my father. He's worth a
couple of hours' sail any day." It was said in such an odd way that
one couldn't resent his impudence. John Ford was seized with a fit of
wheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, and
checked himself.

"You're very good," he said icily; "my granddaughter has other things
to do. You, gentlemen, will please yourselves"; and, with a very slight
bow, he went stumping on to the house. Dan looked at me, and I looked at
him.

"You'll come?" said Pearse, rather wistfully. Dan stammered: "Thank you,
Mr. Pearse; I'm a better man on a horse than in a boat, but--thank you."
Cornered in this way, he's a shy, soft-hearted being. Pearse smiled his
thanks. "Wednesday, then, at ten o'clock; you shan't regret it."

"Pertinacious beggar!" I heard Dan mutter in his beard; and found myself
marching down the lane again by Pearse's side. I