"Is there anything to see
here?"
"There's the sea and the lighthouse," his companion told him
curtly--"nothing else."
Cheveril smiled faintly to himself in the darkness.
"Try one of these cigarettes," he said sociably. "I don't enjoy smoking
alone."
He was aware, as his unknown friend accepted the offer, that he would
have infinitely preferred to refuse.
"Been here long?" he asked him, as they plunged through the shingle
towards the sand.
"I've lived here nearly all my life," was the reply. And, after a
moment, as if the confidence would not be repressed: "I'm leaving
now--for good."
"Ah!" said Cheveril sympathetically. "It's pretty beastly when you come
to turn out. I've done it, and I know."
"It's infernal," said the other gloomily, and relapsed into silence.
"Going abroad?" Cheveril ventured presently.
"Yes. Going to the other side of the world." Surliness had given place
to depression in the boy's voice. Sympathy, albeit from an unknown
quarter, moved him to confidence. "But it isn't that I mind," he said, a
moment later. "I should be ready enough to clear out if it weren't
for--some one else!"
"A woman, I suppose?" Cheveril said.
He was aware that his companion glanced at him sharply through the
gloom, and knew that he was momentarily suspected of eavesdropping.
Then, with impulsive candour, the answer came:
"Yes; the girl I'm engaged to.
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