p.

VIII.

At dawn he awoke refreshed. The sun rose from the ocean like an indolent
girl from a bath. Before the house was astir he was out of doors
exploring the land. He strolled past the row of hotels that front the
sea, and pausing a moment at the Casino, fragrant then, and free of the
stench of drink that is the outcome of the later season, he wondered how
it was that, given money, and possibly brains, it was necessary to make
a building as awkward as was that. And then he strayed to the shore,
past the tenantless bath-houses, and on through the glories of the
morning to the untrodden beach beyond.

As he walked, the village faded in the haze. The tide was low and the
sand firm and hard. The waves broke leisurely in films and fringes of
white, gurgling an invitation to their roomy embrace. And when the
hotels were lost in the distance and the solitude was murmurous with
nature alone, Tristrem, captivated by the allurements of the sea, went
down into the waves and clasped them to him as lovers clasp those they
love.

The sun was well on its amble to the zenith before he returned to the
cottage. His hostess, he found, had not yet appeared, and as breakfast
seemed to be served in that pleasant fashion which necessitates nothing,
not even an appetite, Tristrem drank his coffee in solitude. And as he
idled over the meal he recalled the horrors of the night, and smiled.
The air of the morning, the long and quiet stroll, the plunge in the
sea, and the after-bath of sunlight that he had taken stretched full
length on the sand, had dissipated the enervating emotions of dream and
brought him in their stead a new invigoration. He was about to begin the
dithyrambs of the day before, when the servant appeared, bearing a
yellow envelope, and a book in which he was to put his name. He gave the
receipt and opened the message, wonderingly.

"_Please come to town_," it ran, "_your father is dying.--Robert
Harris._"

"Your father is dying," he repeated. "H'm. Robert Harris. I never knew
before what the butler's first name was. But what has that to do with
it? There are times when I am utterly imbecile. Your father is dying.
Yes, of course, I must go at once. But it isn't possible. H'm. I
remember. He looked ghastly when I saw him. I suppose--I ought to--good
God, why should I attempt to feign a sorrow that I do not feel? It is
his own fault. I would have--But there, what is the use?"

He bit his nail; he was perplexe