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By Root 5692 0

little too early, waited outside the block of buildings from which Cecil at last emerged, blowing his nose. They walked through draughty streets of private hotels to the East Cliff Pavilion. This vast glassy building, several floors deep, had been clamped skilfully to the face of the cliff, and was entered from the top like a catacomb. Tiers of glazed balconies overhung the sea, which had diluted into a mauvish haze by the time the concert finished. Portia had not a good ear, but she went up in Cecil's estimation by spotting a tune from Madame Butterfly. In fact, the orchestra played a good deal of music to which she and Irene had illicitly listened, skulking outside palace hotels abroad. At half-past six, attendants drew the curtains over the now extinct view. When the concert was over, Cecil and Portia quitted their plush fauteuils for a glass-topped table, at which they ate poached eggs on haddock and banana splits. Though exceedingly brilliantly lit, the hall with its lines of tables was almost empty, and lofty silence filled it. No doubt it would be gay at some other time. Portia listened with an unfixed eye to Cecil's thoughtful conversation: by this time tomorrow, she would know if Eddie were coming or not. They caught the quarter-to-nine bus back to Seale, and at the gate of Waikiki, saying good-night, Cecil gave her hand a platonic squeeze.

The time between Eddie's Friday morning letter and his arrival seemed to contract to nothing. In so far as time did exist, it held some dismay. The suspense of the week, though unnerving, had had its own tune or pattern: now she knew he was coming the tune stopped. For people who live on expectations, to face up to their realisation is something of an ordeal. Expectations are the most perilous form of dream, and when dreams do realise themselves it is in the waking world: the difference is subtly but often painfully felt. What she should have begun to enjoy, from Friday morning, was anticipation—but she found anticipation no longer that pure pleasure it once was. Even a year ago, the promised pleasure could not come soon enough: it was agony to consume intervening time. Now, she found she could wish Saturday were not on her so soon—she unconsciously held it off with one hand. This lack of avidity and composure, this need to recover both in a vigil of proper length, showed her already less of a child, and she was shocked by this loss or change in her nature, as she might have been by a change in her own body.

On Saturday morning, she was awake for a minute before she dared open her eyes. Then she saw her curtains white with Saturday's light—relentlessly, the too great day was poured out, on the sea, on her window sill. Then she thought there might be a second letter from Eddie, to say he was not coming after all. But there was no letter.

Later, the day became not dark but muted; haze bound the line of the coast; the sun did not quite shine. There had been no more talk, when it had come to the point, of Eddie's catching the morning train: he would come by the train by which Portia had come. Mrs. Heccomb wanted to order the taxi to meet him, but Portia felt

Eddie would be overpowered by this, besides not being glad to pay for the taxi—so it was arranged that the carrier should bring down his bag. Portia walked up the station hill to meet him. She heard the train whistle away back in the woods; then it whistled again, then slowly came round the curve. When Eddie had got out they walked to the parapet and looked over at the view. Then they started downhill together. This was not like the afternoon when she had arrived herself, for a week more of spring had already sweetened the air.

Eddie had been surprised by the view from the parapet: he had had no idea Seale was so far from the sea.

"Oh yes, it is quite a way," she said happily.

"But I thought it was once a port."

"It was, but the sea ran back."

"Did it really, darling: just fancy!" Catching at Portia's wrist, Eddie swung it twice in a gay methodical way, as, with the godlike step of people walking downhill, they went