ish nothing in the night, except a glimmer of road
between dark banks, until suddenly, looking far down toward the moaning
sea, we caught sight of a few lights like yellow stars which seemed to
have been tossed over a precipice, and to have caught on a steep
hillside, as they rolled. "That's Clovelly," said Sir Lionel. He stopped
the car on a kind of natural plateau and lifted me lightly down, so that
I shouldn't splash into unseen abysses of mud. Apollo would be safe
there, he said, though in old days the folk of Clovelly used to be not
only desperate smugglers, but wreckers, and would entice ships upon the
rocks by means of lure-lights. They were very different now, and as
honest and kind-hearted as any people in the world.

There was no dawn yet, but the wind had dropped a little, and the long
crystal spears of rain seemed to bring with them an evanescent, ethereal
glitter, reflected from unseen stars above the clouds. The trembling
silver haze dimly showed us how to pick our way down a steep, narrow
street of steps, over which fountains of water played and swirled. There
were lights of boats in a little harbour, far, far below, and the
extraordinary village of tiny white houses appeared to have tumbled down
hill, like a broken string of pearls fallen from a goddess's neck.

Sir Lionel held my arm to keep me from tripping, and we descended the
steps slowly, the rain that sprayed against our faces smelling salt as
the sea, its briny "tang" mingling with the fragrance of honeysuckle and
fuchsias. The combination, distilled by the night, was intoxicating; and
if I ever smell it again, even at the other end of the world, my
thoughts will run back to Sir Lionel and the fairy village of Clovelly.

Half-way down the cleft in the cliff, which is Clovelly's one street, we
stopped at a house where a faint light burned sleepily. It was the New
Inn, and when Sir Lionel knocked loudly, I was doubtful as to the
reception we were likely to have at such an hour. But I needn't have
worried--in Devon! Even if you wake people out of pleasant dreams to
disagreeable realities, and demand coffee, and trail wet marks over
their clean floors, they are kind and friendly. A delightful man let us
in, and instead of scolding, pitied us--a great deal more than I, at any
rate, needed to be pitied. He lit lights, and we saw a quaint room,
whose shadows threw out unexpected gleams of polished brass, and blues
and pinks of old china.

Though the