ring some wild brave sailor making love to his
sweetheart there, and telling her about the sea, her only rival in his
love. No doubt it's a corruption of some old Cornish name, and I refuse
to accept it as a Lover's Leap, though such a legend has grown up around
it. I'm tired of Lover's Leaps.

The whole coast, as we swept round, was a vast golden sickle in the
early morning light; and everything was so beautiful that the door of my
heart swung wide open. No arm would have been strong enough to push it
shut, not even Mrs. Senter's. Instead of feeling angry with her, as we
drew near Bideford, I was grateful for the adventure she had
(indirectly) given me.

The servants of the Royal Hotel were just waking up, but, of course,
being Devonshire people, instead of being cross they were delightfully
good-natured and smiling. I was shown to a pleasant room, and provided
with a hot bath which (with nearly a whole bottle of eau de Cologne
extravagantly emptied into it) made me feel as if I had had a refreshing
eight hours' sleep. Already it seemed as if the night's experience had
been a dream, dreamed in that sleep. But I was glad, glad it was real,
and not a dream; something I had lived through, by Sir Lionel's side; a
clear memory to remain like a happy island in the sea of life whatever
the future weather.

I dressed slowly, not wanting even "forty winks"; and about eight
o'clock Emily knocked at my door. She had been worried, she said, and
not able to sleep, fearing accidents, waking now and then, to listen for
the sound of a car. Poor dear, she wouldn't know Apollo's noble voice
from the threepenny thrum of a motor bicycle! But she was kind and
solicitous, though I think a little shocked to find my vitality in such
a state of effervescence. She would have approved of me if I had been a
draggled wreck; but even as it was, she felt it worth while to explain
why she hadn't accompanied her brother. She would have proposed doing
so, she assured me, but her neuralgia had been very trying yesterday,
owing to the bad weather and east wind. She feared to be more trouble
than assistance to Sir Lionel, and as he was my guardian, I was
sufficiently chaperoned by him; any expert in etiquette would confirm
her in that opinion, she anxiously added. Nevertheless, when I told her
about our stop at Clovelly, she shook her head, and intimated that
perhaps it had better not be referred to in public. I suppose by "in
public," she meant before