Geoffrey had not yet come in.
It was a lovely autumn evening; the sea seemed to sleep, and the little clouds, from which the sunset fires had paled, lay like wreaths of smoke upon the infinite blue sky.

Why had not Mr.Bingham come back, she wondered; he would scarcely have time to dress.

Supposing that an accident had happened to him.

Nonsense! what accident could happen?
He was so big and strong he seemed to defy accidents; and yet had it not been for her there would be little enough left of his strength to-day.
Ah! she was glad that she had lived to be able to save him from death.
There he came, looming like a giant in the evening mist.
There was a small hand-gate beside the large one on which she leant.
Geoffrey stalked straight up to it as though he did not see her; he saw her well enough, but he was cross with her.
She allowed him to pass through the gate, which he shut slowly, perhaps to give her an opportunity of speaking, if she wished to do so; then thinking that he did not see her she spoke in her soft, musical voice.
"Did you have good sport, Mr.Bingham ?" "No," he answered shortly; "I saw very little, and I missed all I saw." "I am so sorry, except for the birds.

I hate the birds to be killed.