a voluntary exile from Engelbaum's in consequence. That, or the
exercise of running, had done him a power of good. Just now he was
bronzed, spare, even inclining to gauntness. Twelve months before,
he had shortened his whiskers, as a first step to disguise.
Since then, and to please this woman, he had grown a beard which he
kept short and trimmed to a point, naval fashion. It was
straw-coloured, went well with his bronzed complexion and improved
his appearance very considerably. It may be that this growth had
encouraged the hair on his scalp or stimulated it by rivalry to
renewed effort: more likely the play of sunshine and sea-breeze had
done the trick between them; but anyhow Farrell now possessed a light
mat of silky yellowish hair on the top of his head--as the nigger
song has it, in the place where the wool ought to grow. Shoes, blue
dungaree trousers and a striped shirt were his clothing--the shirt
opened at the throat and to the second button, disclosing a V of
naked chest as healthily tanned as his face. His face had thinned
too. His eyes no longer bulged. They had receded well under the
pent of his brow and, in receding, taken colour from its shadow.

"I am not dull, Santa," said Farrell. "I am only content and--well,
a little bit regretful, and--well yes, again, the least bit lazy.
But what does it matter? Ylario has gone down to the beach. He will
send off word to the skipper that all this truck will be ready on the
foreshore by five-thirty to-morrow. In good weather he never weighs
before seven, and the weather is settled."

The woman, at one word of his, had turned and set down her glasses.

"Regretful?" She echoed it as a question, and followed it up with a
question. "At what are you staring so hard?"

He lifted his eyes and met hers very steadily, earnestly. "At your
shape, Santa," was his answer. "When your back is turned, I am
always looking at you so."

"Regretfully?" she asked, mocking.

"As for the regret, you know what it is and must be. How can a man
feel it different, when we leave this place to-morrow? Don't women
feel that way towards places where they have been happy?"

She picked up the glasses again and set them with her gaze seaward
before answering. Thus the shadow of her hands screened any
emotion--if emotion there were--on her face.

"I have not been happy here, all the time," she answered softly,
readjusting the glass, or pretending to. "Not by any means.