The ride home was quiet. Grandin offered Ethel his topcoat but she did not want it. The moors were overlaid with a thick mist, very lovely to see in the headlights of the car, very pleasant to ride through. The cool dampness of the night blew in at the windows; it refreshed Grandin’s fatigued spirits, causing him to become wider and wider awake as they neared Sconset. In the opposite corner of the dark back seat the Howards were silent, engrossed in one another like a young couple. Up front, the driver kept his eye on the vague but flying ribbon of road, almost ostentatiously oblivious of his passengers.

Except for the unusually loud rumble of the beach, the midnight air of Sconset was soundless. The village had gone to sleep. Dune House was blacked out and quiet. They alighted on the steps of the veranda and the car drove off at once.

“Good night, kids, I’m dead,” Sarah Howard said, and she disappeared with her husband into the dark hotel.

John Grandin sat down on the bottom step of the porch; Ethel was just above.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Nothing. I thought I’d sit here a moment.”

“It’s too foggy and damp.”

“I’m all right.”

“John, I want to talk to you.”

“Now listen,” he said sharply; “I’m not going to move and I’m certainly not coming upstairs if you’re going to fight! I’m sick of it!”

“Be quiet, people will hear you!” She came down the steps. “John—what’s the matter with you?” she said tensely.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you?”

“I’m not sure . . .”

“If you mind because I didn’t ask you to dance, I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”

“I never thought of it. But you might have asked Billie.”

“Why the hell should I have asked Billie? I didn’t want to dance with Billie!”

“Cliff asked me!”

Their conversation was carried on in savage whispers, tense and unreal as if they were involved in some dreadful make-­believe conspiracy, against no one but themselves.

“What difference does it make to you whether I danced with Billie or not?”

“Oh, it doesn’t, I suppose. . . .”

“Then what in Christ’s name are we fighting about!”

“I don’t know,” she said; “I don’t know . . .”

He stared into the fog, wanting to be alone.

“You’re not yourself, John. That was a stupid performance of yours on the beach this morning! Everybody noticed!”

His anger rose. “What performance?”

“The way you acted about that sun-­tan oil! Cliff was only trying to help you.”

He was incensed; it seemed impossible to sit there any longer—he had to get away from her. “I didn’t need any help!”

“Bill Howard took it. Why couldn’t you?”

Hot with rage, he did not trust himself to answer.