CHAPTER VIII
I
V alerie lay in the shade of a solitary clump of five stunted trees on the edge of the cliffs about two miles north of the ravine. It was the Sunday following the headache. She had finished up her work that morning, buoyed up by the thought that she would get out to the sea in the afternoon. It was a fine windy day, cool and clear. The breeze was strong on the cliffs and below her the surf tumbled riotously.
She had found on the very edge of the cliffs a rushgrown pocket like the pit of an old Maori fortification, with one end worn down so that sitting she could see the surf splintering itself into harmless froth below. She sat down, drew her chin up to her knees, and began to dream of that magnificent future when she should have literary London at her feet. Then she turned to the last number of the Sydney Bulletin that she had brought with her, and reading, grew dozy and settled herself to sleep. She lay on her side facing the sea, with a light cloak drawn partly over her and the sun and wind burning her right cheek.
And it was thus, unconscious, that Dane wandering along the cliffs came noiselessly upon her.
Astonished and then amused he stood looking down on her. He had taken his pipe from his mouth at the first sight of her, but he put it back and puffed on. He was aware of the fine lines of her figure under her serge dress and the cloak, and of the easy way she lay. He was vaguely regretful that a soft hat kept the sunlight off her
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