THE WINDOWback entire self-confidence, had recovered from thecircus, and was about (and now again she liked himwarmly) to tell her—but here, the houses fallingaway on both sides, they came out on the quay, andthe whole bay spread before them and Mrs. Ramsaycould not help exclaiming, "Oh, how beautiful!"For the great plateful of blue water was before her;the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst;and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fadingand falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand duneswith the wild flowing grasses on them, which alwaysseemed to be running away into some moon country,uninhabited of men.

That was the view, she said, stopping, growinggreyer-eyed, that her husband loved.

She paused a moment. But now, she said, artistshad come here. There indeed, only a few paces off,stood one of them, in Panama hat and yellow boots,seriously, softly, absorbedly, for all that he waswatched by ten little boys, with an air of profoundcontentment on his round red face gazing, and then,when he had gazed, dipping; imbuing the tip of hisbrush in some soft mound of green or pink. SinceMr. Paunceforte had been there, three years before,all the pictures were like that, she said, green andgrey, with lemon-coloured sailing-boats, and pinkwomen on the beach.23
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