With a face grimly immobile as the carved head of a heathen god, Thalassa stood at the front door watching the departure of Sisily and her aunt until the car was lost to sight in a dip of the moors.

Then with a glance at the leaping water at the foot of the cliffs, grey and mysterious in the gloaming, he turned and went inside the house.
It was his evening duty to prepare the lamps which lighted up the old house on the cliffs.

Sisily generally helped him in that tedious duty, but she was gone, and for the future he must do it alone.
The lamps were kept in a little lowbrowed room off the stone kitchen.
There Thalassa betook himself.

Robert Turold disliked the dark, and a great array of lamps awaited him: large ones for the rooms, small ones for the passages and staircase.

Thalassa set to work with a will, filling them with oil, trimming the wicks, and polishing the glasses with a piece of chamois leather.
As he filled and trimmed and polished he sang to himself an old sea song: "The devil and me, we went away to sea, In the old brig 'Lizbeth-Jane'-- " His voice was gruff and harsh, and the melody, such as it was, did nothing to relax his expression, which remained grim and secret as ever.
Each lamp he lit as he finished it, and their gathered strength gushed in a flood of yellow light on his crafty brown face and deep-set eyes.