He took to bathing. He walked down to Pampelonne, the great wild beach littered with bleached sea-rubbish, like bones. The currents were dangerous. In perverse moods he punished her with anxiety. Every morning he did exercises on the verandah; lay outstretched, crucified, drinking in the sun with his naked body. His skin turned to darkest bronze. Stark naked, with furious ironic energy, he performed his comic religious ritual of strainings, stretchings and heavings. Margaret watched him, smiling. And when he saw her looking at him, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself.

Then he went out sailing with the son of the lighthouse-keeper. Often they were away from early morning till sunset. Margaret would come down to the port to meet them.

“I should like to do a picture of Mimi,” she said one day.

“Why?”

“He’s such a magnificent type. Really beautiful, of his kind. Like an animal.”

“Is he?” Edward felt irritated because quite unreasonably guilty.

“Really, Margaret,” he added, with his most unpleasant smile, “you describe people like a nursery governess at the National Gallery.”

But after this he didn’t go out with Mimi any more. Another boy, named Gaston, was only too glad to take his place. Gaston had a squint.

A few days later Edward asked if she’d mentioned the portrait.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why not? I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

As a matter of fact, Mimi had been rather attracted by Margaret. He found an excuse to call at the villa. Edward told him, in front of Margaret, about the picture. He was very much flattered. And, of course, after this, Margaret had to do it. Edward thought it the worst thing she’d ever painted. It was bold, cheaply attractive. One day, coming back to the house, he found she’d hung it in his bedroom. He got really angry:

“I wish you’d take that damned thing away!”

And so it was finally presented to Mimi himself. Presumably it occupied a place of honour in the lighthouse.

*   *   *

At length, one evening, Margaret said:

“Edward, how much longer do you want to stop here?”

“Where would you like to go?”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant—I know sometimes you like to be alone. You mustn’t ever feel tied.”

“But aren’t you happy here?” he asked uneasily.

“Of course—so long as you are.”

Nothing more was said. A few days later she told him:

“Edward, next week I’m going to Paris.”

He accepted this. Alone, he was able to stand the villa for two days. Then he left for Marseilles and so by boat to Constantinople. In the autumn he was back again in Paris with a slight fever. They met. He said:

“You see, I fly to you when I cut my finger.”

She laughed.

“My dear, that’s what I wish.”

*   *   *