It was a curious sullen-natured day, and although there was not very
much sun the air was as hot as though they were in midsummer. Had they
been in a volcanic region, Geoffrey would have thought that such weather
preceded a shock of earthquake. As it was he knew that the English
climate was simply indulging itself at the expense of the population.
But as up to the present, the season had been cold, this knowledge did
not console him. Indeed he felt so choked in the stuffy little church
that just before the sermon (which he happened to be aware was _not_
written by Beatrice) he took an opportunity to slip out unobserved. Not
knowing where to go, he strolled down to the beach, on which there
was nobody to be seen, for, as has been observed, Bryngelly slept on
Sundays. Presently, however, a man approached walking rapidly, and to
all appearance aimlessly, in whom he recognised Owen Davies. He was
talking to himself while he walked, and swinging his arms. Geoffrey
stepped aside to let him pass, and as he did so was surprised and even
shocked to see the change in the man. His plump healthy-looking face had
grown thin, and wore a half sullen, half pitiful expression; there were
dark circles round his blue eyes, once so placid, and his hair would
have been the better for cutting.
Pages:
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349