One afternoon at the turn of the tide, a sort of transformation scene took place along the sands and on the promenade; a bank of cold vapour advanced from the sea, through which the sun glimmered faintly yellow, then disappeared. The girls’ thin blouses began to flap limply against their chilled arms; matrons turned a little red or blue about the nose; children’s hair either curled more tightly or hung limp, while their cheeks took on a lovely colour in the cool dampness; tiny beads of moisture hung on everybody’s eyelashes. Those who had come out to the seaside from the hot streets of Flodmouth felt when they emerged from the railway station, as if they were plunging into a cold vapour bath.

When Caroline went to relieve her colleague Lillie at tea-time, she was met by a stream of nurses, protesting infants and middle-aged women on their way home. And as the men who had just arrived from a day’s business in the city made straight for their lodgings, Thorhaven in the very midst of the season took on an air of exclusion of remoteness. You could notice the wash of the waves again now.

The mist crept steadily along inland, muffling the church, the trees beyond almost hiding the privet hedge from Miss Ethel as she glanced out of the window.

“A heavy roke. I hope it won’t last,” she said; but she was not really thinking of what she was saying because her attention was engrossed by the noises on the other side of the hedge. Never the same continuously, but always changing, so that the ear never became dulled by knowing what to expect. A sharply whistled tune. Voices. The knock, knock, knock of a tool on a hard substance. A sound of scraping. Then blessed silence for a few seconds. Then knock, knock, knock again. She turned impatiently to Mrs. Bradford, who sat close up to the window reading the paper. “Thank goodness, it is nearly five; the men will be gone directly.”

“You should try to get used to it,” said Mrs. Bradford. “You have let it get on your nerves.” And she returned at once to the newspaper in which she was reading a minutely-reported divorce case; for though a stolid and intensely respectable woman she loved to read these reports. “It is plain to see that the husband wants to get rid of his wife,” she said after a while.

“Well, that seems easily done nowadays,” said Miss Ethel, listening still as she spoke. “Perhaps women don’t realize that though they can easily get rid of an unsatisfactory husband, it will be just as easy for a satisfactory husband to get rid of them.”

But Mrs. Bradford did not care for abstract questions. “I expect the Marchioness will have the custody of the children,” she said.

So Miss Ethel took up the other half of the paper to try and distract her mind from the noises over the hedge. But every head-line seemed to dart at her sore consciousness as if it were a snake’s head with a sting in it. Murder. Unrest. Strikes. Dissatisfactions. Change. The whole outlook was indescribably comfortless and depressing to her. She felt something akin to the vague, apprehensive misery beyond reason or common sense which people feel during the rumble of a distant earthquake.

“I hate reading the papers,” she said, flinging the sheet down.

“You shouldn’t read the parts that worry you. I don’t,” said Mrs. Bradford. “But you always were one to work yourself up about things. I remember once how you fretted over some little newsboys with no stockings on, when we went into Flodmouth as children to see the pantomime. You worried yourself and everybody else to death. But they were used to it, as dear father said, and it did them no harm. You are of the worrying sort, Ethel, and you should try to hold yourself in.”

“Poor world if nobody worried,” said Miss Ethel; then she rose abruptly and carried out the tea-tray.

Soon she was back again with a duster in her hand, beginning to dust the large bookshelf, which had been overlooked for a day or two. As her duster passed over the red-leather backs of the old bound volumes of Punch she saw with a wistful inner eye as if she looked back to a Promised Land on which the gate was shut for ever that world of swells and belles, of croquet and sunshine, of benevolence to the “poor” and fingers touching forelocks, black being black and white white.

Then Mrs. Bradford spoke again. “Why not leave that dusting, Ethel? You have been at it all day.”

“Somebody must,” said Miss Ethel, going on dusting.

“Well, I only wish I could do more,” said Mrs. Bradford, comfortably turning her page with a rustling crackle. “But my legs have given way ever since I was married. I don’t know why, I’m sure; but marriage does seem to affect the constitution in queer ways.”

Miss Ethel felt as she was intended to feel that it was not within her power to comprehend the mysteries of the conjugal state; so acquiescing from long habit in her sister’s torpidity, she went on with her dusting.

But her head ached appallingly, and she looked at the clock-hands nearing five with a feeling that she could bear the sounds of building so long and no longer. If they lasted a single minute beyond that time something inside her head would snap. Knock knock knock; scrape scrape; the thud of something thrown down. She felt her breath coming fast as she waited for the moment when her aching senses would be lulled by the cessation of it all when she would rest on a blissful silence.

“Thank God, it’s five o’clock!” she said, flinging down her duster.

“Yes. The men will be leaving work now,” said Mrs. Bradford.

Miss Ethel continued her work again, moving quietly about the room. Wave after wave of wet salt air was rolling in from the sea, pressing upon that which travelled slowly inland, so that the roke grew very dense, and the little house seemed to be cut off from all the world.

Miss Ethel sat down and leaned her head back with her eyes shut: Mrs. Bradford continued to read the paper, then rustled a page and looked at her sister over it. As she did so, Miss Ethel sat up with a jerk and stared across the room.

“Bless me!” said Mrs. Bradford, “what are you staring at me like that for, Ethel? Do I look ill?” And she began to wonder if she felt ill, for she always feared a stroke.

“Listen!” said Miss Ethel in an odd tone. “Don’t you hear them? They are working overtime.”

Mrs. Bradford took her paper up irritably. “Goodness! Is that all.” She also listened, then added: “What nonsense you talk, Ethel! There is not a sound. They have stopped work for the night.”

Miss Ethel walked to the window where the grey air clung to the glass and stood there a moment, listening intently. It was true. She could hear nothing.

But as soon as she sat down by the fire and was not thinking, it began again knock, knock, knock. . . .

“They are there still,” she said. “They must be.”

“I tell you they are not,” said Mrs. Bradford. “You have simply got the noise on your nerves. If you don’t take care, you will be really ill. You think about the noise morning, noon and night, until you fancy you hear it.”

“I’m not a fool,” said Miss Ethel. “Surely I know whether I hear a noise or not.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Bradford. “I saw a case in the paper of a man who fancied he heard a drum beating when there was nothing at all, really.”

“But I’m not ‘a case,’” said Miss Ethel, tartly, pressing her hand to her forehead. “And I’m going to see if the men really have left or not.”

Mrs. Bradford glanced out of the window. “Well, you must want something to do,” she said. “You might just hand me that sheet you were reading, as you go out.”

The door banged. Miss Ethel’s dim form was visible for a moment as she passed the window then the mist hid her altogether.

Caroline was also engulfed in it as soon as she came out of the little shelter at the entrance of the promenade. She could taste it on her lips, the wet drops clung to her eyelashes. Lillie, who had just arrived to take her place, looked all out of curl like a moulting bird, but both of them were spiritualized by the grey mist which blurred their outlines and through which their lips and eyes showed fresh and wistful.

“Pity you’ve got your new hat on, Carrie,” said Lillie, shaking out her knitted cap. Then she giggled. “But I suppose you were expecting to meet your boy at the train.”

Carrie shook her head. “No, I’m going back home first. I have to see about supper.”

“I expect you’ll take the place on altogether when the season’s over,” said the girl.

“Not me!” said Caroline, answering the faint echo of condescension in the other’s tone. “I’ve told you time and again, Lillie, how it was I went there. What’s more, I’m telling Miss Ethel to-night that I can’t stop any longer.”

She had not meant to do it precisely on this evening, but suddenly found herself in possession of a full-fledged decision.

“What are you going to do after the prom. closes then,” said Lillie.

“Take a post in an office in Flodmouth,” said Caroline.

“But you can’t do typewriting or shorthand,” said Lillie, unimpressed. “You won’t find it so easy. I know I had my work set to get a decent job to go to in October, and I’m thoroughly trained. I only took to this on account of my health. I never

“You’ve told me that before,” interposed Caroline shortly. “And I can do typewriting. I have been taking lessons with Miss Wannock.”

“Well, I wish you luck, I’m sure,” said Lillie shortly, shutting down the little window with a click to keep out the damp. She was sufficiently good-hearted, but the trades union spirit was in her and she did not like the idea that another girl should find a post without going through exactly the same training as herself.

Caroline turned towards the main road where nobody could be distinguished twenty yards away and men looked like trees walking; but after a minute or two she noticed something in the general shape and gait of a man coming her way which made her feel sure it was Wilson. She wondered whether he would speak if he caught her up, or whether he would fail to recognize her in the mist, or would give a brief good afternoon and pass on. She slackened speed a little, for though she was still angry with him it would be a “bit of fun” to hear what he had to say. There was also another and far more potent reason. If he walked with her, Lillie would be proved in the wrong; for he would not walk and talk with one whom he regarded as his relatives’ maid-servant. But he was nearly past and did not look her way.

“Good evening, Mr. Wilson,” she piped then; her voice sounding crudely loud to herself in the grey stillness. But she had to prove her place in the world make certain of it, lest she should lose it.

“Oh!” He swung round, peering into her face at first not remembering her. Then something in her bright glance reminded him. “So it is you, is it? Hurrying home to get ready to dance again to-night, I suppose?” He spoke indifferently, disinclined for adventure in the chill, damp atmosphere of this late afternoon. Still he went on, being by nature somewhat expansive. “Is Miss Wilson at home this afternoon, do you know?” then fell into step by Caroline’s side without thinking of it.

Yes. Were you wanting to see her? said Caroline; but underneath, she was saying to herself: If Id done what Aunt Creddle wanted, and been a servant out and out, I should never have walked with Mr. Wilson like this. She felt consciously proud of being a business girl one of the great company that had every evening free, and could wear low necks and powder their faces. But there was more than that in it

Wilson glanced sideways at her, vaguely satisfied with the lightness of her step by his side and the look of her lips and eyes through the mist. His interest was beginning to wake again. “I am going to the Cottage with some tickets for that Garden Fête for the Hospital which Miss Ethel and Miss Temple are helping to get up.”

“Oh, can I take them?” said Caroline.

“No, thank you. I have a message from Miss Temple to deliver as well,” he answered.

There was practically no one to be seen on the road only a few distant objects moving in the mist and it would have been awkward for either of them to leave the other, so they settled down to walk all the way to the Cottage together.

She spoke abruptly, nervously. “I’m leaving soon, you know. I’m going into an office. I can type, but I can’t do shorthand. Still, I aren’t afraid of work. If only I could get a bit more practice I should be a very quick typist the teacher says so.”

He walked on, saying nothing, and she thought she had offended him no doubt he feared she was going to ask him to give her a job. She flushed crimson and added quickly: “I shall find a job all right. A friend of mine is looking round for me.”

He turned to her, smiling, and his tone was slightly more familiar than it would have been to a girl of his ordinary acquaintance. “I see. The friend I saw you with at the dance. Well, I hope he’ll find what you want.”

“I have no doubt he will, thank you,” said Caroline.

Wilson was silent for a few minutes. “Look here,” he said, “I think we have a spare machine at the office that I could lend you for a time to practise on. You must have practice.”

Then he waited complacently for her to swing round towards him as she did her eyes and voice filled with surprised gratitude: for he was getting on well in the world himself, and he liked sometimes to feel what a good-hearted fellow he was, in spite of it.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “But I am sorry you have to leave Miss Wilson.”

“So am I, in a way. But you must look after yourself in these days,” said Caroline, repeating her formula. “Things aren’t like they used to be.” She paused. “My goodness, I’m glad they aren’t! Fancy if I had had to be another Aunt Ellen all my life.”

He laughed, pleased with himself and her. “Well, I must own that I’m glad I was not born into a stagnant world.”

A sense of power of vitality heightened by the stormy times in which they lived, ran through them both as they spoke. It was rather like the feeling of a strong swimmer in a roughish sea, with fitful sunshine and little breakers far out towards the horizon.

By this time they had reached the Cottage and Caroline went in to announce Wilson’s arrival. Mrs. Bradford was still reading her paper, but Miss Ethel had not yet returned from her errand to see if the workmen were still working at the new houses.

“I can’t think,” said Mrs. Bradford, “what Ethel means by going on like this. She just ran out with a shawl round her, and has been absent three-quarters of an hour. I told her the men had stopped work, but she would go to see for herself. I am afraid she may have fallen over a brick or something in the fog.” She turned to Caroline. “I wish you would just go and see.”

Caroline went out at once and Wilson followed her with a word to Mrs. Bradford. As they crossed the garden the privet hedge loomed like a wall, and above it could be seen the dim outline of brickwork left jaggedly unfinished. Caroline stumbled as she went through the little side gate beyond the hedge, but righted herself immediately, and Wilson withdrew the hand he had put out to help her. Then they walked cautiously among the bricks in the long grass, calling out: “Are you there? Are you there?” But all was dead silence. At last Caroline caught her foot on something soft dreadful. She had yet no idea why it was dreadful. Then she bent closer. “Miss Ethel! It’s Miss Ethel!” She went down on her knees in the long grass. “Miss Ethel! Are you hurt?”

There was no answer, and Caroline said over her shoulder in a quick, low voice: “You’d better go and fetch a doctor. We must not move her until we know if she has broken anything. Send Mrs. Bradford with some rugs.”

And though she was so terribly sorry, she was also pleased with her self-control. Aunt Ellen and Aunt Creddle would not have been able to take it like this when they were nineteen. This was what darted through Caroline’s mind, even while she spoke.

But the next moment Miss Ethel moaned a little and began to sit up, looking round her affrightedly at the half-built walls in the mist. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? I’m on the wrong side of the hedge.” Then she remembered and began to shiver violently from head to foot. “I know. I came to see if the men were working. But they were not. The field was all empty. It I was so sure I heard them it startled me not to find them here. I think I must have fainted.”

“Hush! Don’t bother to talk now, Miss Ethel,” said Caroline. “You are all right now.”

“You are sure you have not broken any bones?” said Wilson.

“Bones? No.” Miss Ethel was recovering herself quickly. “It’s nothing. I shall be all right in a minute or two. Here, give me your hand, Caroline.”

“I daresay you tripped over a brick, Miss Ethel; I very nearly did,” said Caroline, helping her to rise.

“Yes, that was it, that was it!” said Miss Ethel, speaking with a sort of exhausted eagerness.

At first as they went up the field she held Wilson’s arm, but soon released it and went forward alone. “I’m all right now,” she insisted. “Quite all right.”

Mrs. Bradford came out into the hall as they entered, and billows of salt mist followed them in. “Shut the door, please,” she said. “Then you were not lost, Ethel. What on earth were you doing out there? I began to get quite uneasy about you.”

Miss Ethel, turning quickly, gave a look at the two who followed her, but she herself had no idea of its pathos and urgency. “I just tripped on a brick and was stunned for a few minutes nothing to matter.”

So Caroline and Wilson knew they were to let it go at that.

“And had the men gone?” said Mrs. Bradford.

“Yes.” She paused. “I thought I would just have a look round.”

“You are so restless, Ethel; why can’t you keep quiet like me?” said Mrs. Bradford fretfully. “It is a great mercy you didn’t break a leg.”

Caroline went out of the room to make a cup of tea for Miss Ethel, and when she was lighting the gas-ring Wilson came in hurriedly, saying in a low voice: “I say, you won’t mention anything about leaving them to-night, will you!”

“What do you take me for?” whispered Caroline back.

“A girl with her head screwed on the right way,” he said. “Then you’ll stay and look after them for a little while longer, anyway? I may tell Miss Temple that, may I?”

“You can tell who you like. I shall not mention leaving until Miss Ethel is better,” said Caroline.

“Good girl! And I won’t forget the typewriting machine,” he answered. “One good turn deserves another. That sounds like Miss Panton, doesn’t it?” And with that he hurried out of the kitchen.