a face of horror and flew up the beach again.
“Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?”
Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs. Fairfield’s lap.
“Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?”
“No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m undressing farther along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember.”
“Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved of Mrs. Harry Kember. Beryl knew it.
Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. . . .
“You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember, She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking.
“It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her.
“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Harry Kember’s voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something more about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette be-
