A tiny border of surf broke on the pebbles.

Emmy drew a long breath and asked Septimus if he smelled the seaweed.

The dog came and sniffed at their boots; then from the excellent leather judging them to be persons above his social station, he turned humbly away.

Septimus called him, made friends with him--he was a smooth yellow dog of no account--and eventually he curled himself up between them and went to sleep.

Septimus smoked his pipe.