As though hypnotised he closed his eyes. Yes, he was walking along the Sea
Road. There was that range of rock that lay out at sea like a crouching
dog. There was that white twisting circle of foam that lay about the Ragged
Stone--out there by itself, the rock with the melancholy bell. Then through
the plunging sea he could hear its note--the moan of some one in pain. And
ever that rattle, that hiss, that suspense, that crash.
"I beg your pardon--" he had run into a lady's maid who was leading a
pompous King Charles. The spaniel eyed him with hatred, the maid with
distrust. He passed on--but the Sea had departed.
To chase away his gathering depression he thought that he would go in and
have tea with Bobby and Alice. It was quite late when he got there, and
stars were in a sky that was so delicate in colour that it seemed as though
it were exhausted by the glorious day that it had had; a little sickle moon
was poised above the Chelsea trees.
To his disgust he found that Percival and Millicent Galleon were having tea
with their brother. Their reception of him very quickly showed him that
"Mortimer Stant" had put a final end to any hopes that they might have had
of his career as an artist.
"How's the book doing, Westcott?" said Percival, looking upon Peter's
loose-fitting clothes, broad shoulders and square-toed shoes with evident
contempt.
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