He heard the ceaseless rumble of the beach, muted but still thunderous. He thought of the warm sand where they had lain for so many hours in the sun, possessed by a sensuous luxury which had pleasantly undone them all. He wondered if the gaudy beach umbrellas still stood in the dark; or did Pete put them away each afternoon? Did the tide come up at night to cover that spot, perhaps; or was it farther withdrawn from the familiar shore, to toss restlessly far out beyond where the pebbles began? He listened intensely, as if with all his senses; it almost seemed as if he could hear the running pebbles as the surf slid back and back. . . . He got up from the step and walked forward into the sand.

He had no intention of going far—not so far that he would transgress the wartime rule—but suddenly, close at hand, he heard the savage low snarl of a dog, and the white uniform of the coast guardsman took shape in the night.

On a taut leash the coast guardsman held back the dog, then spoke up sharply: “Who’s there!”

John Grandin stepped back. “Sorry, officer, I was only—” He broke off; the vicious snarling of the dog made it impossible for him to be heard.

“Quiet, Trump!—Who are you?”

“A guest in the hotel. I came down for a moment because of the moon. . . .”

“Don’t you know you’re not allowed on the beach at night?” the coast guardsman said tensely.

“This isn’t exactly the beach, is it?”

“That doesn’t matter! Get back up on the bluff where you belong or I shall have to report you!”

“Yes. . . . Well, good night. Sorry . . .” He turned back toward the stairway.

Reaching the top, he looked down to see if the coast guardsman and his dog were still there. He thought he detected a vague blur of whiteness below, but he couldn’t be sure.

When he came into the room, the light between their beds had been turned off. He started for the lamp beneath the mirror of the dressing table, then remembered he had again forgotten to get it fixed. He undressed in the bathroom.

In bed at last, he lay wide awake listening to the night. There was no sound whatever to be heard now, not even the distant wash of the sea; and the hotel itself seemed silent as an empty house. Everyone had gone to bed. Room 212, only a few doors down the hall, must be quiet too by this time. The Haumans had said—rather unnecessarily, he thought—that they were going to bed early. . . .

XV

XV

“I must say I don’t know why Mother doesn’t send those wedding pictures. She promised! I’m dying to see them.”

“We can call her up tonight, Billie honey.”