we are both very different from what we were when that happened.'

'Both, I think. I do not speak now as I did then, yet the wish I have
is far more real.'

They were more than half-way up the ascent; it was after sunset, and
the mood of the season was changing.

The plain of Pevensey lay like a vision of fairyland, the colouring
indescribably delicate, unreal; bands of dark green alternated with the
palest and most translucent emeralds. The long stretch of the coast was
a faint outline, yet so clear that every tongue of sand, every smallest
headland was distinguishable. The sky that rested on the eastern
semicircle of horizon was rather neutral tint than blue, and in it hung
long clouds of the colour of faded daffodils. A glance overhead gave
the reason of this wondrous effect of light; there, and away to the
west, brooded a vast black storm-cloud, ragged at the edge, yet seeming
motionless; the western sea was very night, its gloom intensified by
one slip of silver shimmer, wherein a sail was revealed. The hillside
immediately in front of those who stood here was so deeply shadowed
that its contrast threw the vision of unearthly light into distance
immeasurable. A wind was rising, but, though its low whistling sound
was very audible, it seemed to be in the upper air; here scarcely a
breath was felt.

Annabel said:

'Have you seen Thyrza's portrait?

'Yes.'

She raised her eyes; they were sad, compassionate, yet smiled.

'She could not have lived. But you are conscious now of what that face
means?'

'I know nothing of her history from the day when I last saw her, except
the mere outward circumstances.'

'Nor do I. But I saw her once, here, and I have seen her portrait. The
crisis of your life was there. There was your one great opportunity,
and you let it pass. She could not have lived; but that is no matter.
You were tried, Mr. Egremont, and found Wanting.'

'Her love for me did not continue. It was already too late at the end
of those two years.

'Was it?'

'What secret knowledge have you?'

'None whatever, as you mean it. But it was not too late.'

They were silent. And as they stood thus the sky was again transformed.
A steady yet soft wind from the northwest was propelling the great
black cloud seaward, over to France; it moved in a solid mass, its
ragged edges little by little broken off, its bulk detached from the
night which lay behind it. And in the sky which it disclosed rose as it
were a