Look at the liquid blue of that tongue of sea which creeps along its bed through the yellow sands, through the dark meadowland, which creeps and oozes and widens till in an hour's time it will have become a river.

Look at my sand islands, virgin from the foot of man, the home of sea-gulls, the islands of a day.

There may be other and more beautiful places.

There is none quite like this." "I pity you no longer," Lady Saxthorpe asserted fervently.

"The eyes of the artist are a finer possession than the limbs of the athlete." The butler announced luncheon, and they all trooped in.