Mrs. Benton was soothed by something in those twinkling blue eyes, and though astonished was flattered at the implication that she was not damned with the rest.
Tommy Benton seized Valerie by the hand. “Do you like fires on the beach?” he asked.
“More than anything in the world,” she said warmly.
“Suppose we have a picnic tea,” suggested Roger.
“Oh, please do,” said Valerie, “if it will not be too much trouble.”
So she set off with him and the children, leaving Bob to help Mrs. Benton. Valerie got on well with Roger who was predisposed to like all women, especially the daring ones. As they reached the sand-hills she caught sight of a tent roof under the shade of trees against the cliffs to the right. It was well isolated from the rest of the camp.
“A tent,” she exclaimed, stopping suddenly. “Who lives in it?”
“It belongs to Barrington.”
“Barrington! What Barrington?” She tried to keep the astonishment she instantly felt out of her voice.
“Dane Barrington, the writer.” He looked curiously at her. “Do you know him?”
“I have not met him. I know his work, of course. And dad knows him. What is he doing here?”
“He lives here, that is, up the Wairoa. Has been up here about a year. Lives like a hermit.” He saw she was enormously interested.
But she said no more, and just then they came out upon the open beach. The ocean washed before them along an unbroken coast-line for more than fifty miles, and stretched away towards the Australian shore with the glitter of the afternoon sun still hot upon it. Valerie stretched out her arms and began to run and shout and gather firewood with the children. They had a fine pile
