sting of the sail. He knew that lady now.

And he knew the other also, though there was nothing but the turn of
her head and the black accent over her eyes to remind him of Frida
Tancred.

XV

"Well, is it all that you expected? Does the reality come up to the
dream?"

"It does. I never knew a dream that tallied so exactly with the
reality."

Frida was leaning back in a deck-chair, looking at Durant, who sat
beside her on the schooner's rail.

For three days the _Windward_ had sailed up and down the coast of
Cornwall; for three days the little _Torch_, with all sails set,
wheeled round her moorings or followed her flight. Durant had
accepted Miss Tancred's invitation to join them in a week's cruise
in English waters. He spent his mornings in his own yacht, his
afternoons and evenings on board the schooner. The proposal had been
a godsend to him in his state of indecision. After his aimless
wanderings he was exhilarated by this eager challenge and pursuit,
absurdly pitting the speed of his own small craft against the
swiftness and strength of the larger vessel. But he enjoyed still
more sitting on the rail of the _Windward_ and talking to Frida.
There was something infinitely soothing in the society of a woman
who knew nothing and cared nothing about his fame. He was not the
only guest. Besides Miss Chatterton there was Mr. Manby, a little
middle-aged gentleman, who called himself an artist; Miss Manby, a
little middle-aged woman, who seemed to be his sister; and two
little girls with their hair down their backs, his daughters, Eileen
and Ermyntrude Manby. Durant was a good deal alone with Frida, for a
stiff breeze had kept the artist and his sister much below, and
Georgie and the little girls hardly counted.

They were alone now.

Frida had smiled as she spoke, a smile of intelligence and
reminiscence; and he was irresistibly reminded of the first and last
occasion when he had discoursed to her about realities.

"And what are you going to do with it?" he asked.

"With what? With the reality or the dream?"

"With both, with life--now you've got it?"

"Why should I do anything with it? Unless you're talking of moral
obligations, which would be very tiresome of you."

"I'm not thinking of moral obligations."

"What were you thinking of, then?"

"I was thinking--of you."

Frida lay back a little further on her cushion as if she were
withdrawing herself somewhat from his scrutiny. She clasped her
ha