“Yes. No more chancy than painting, my lad.”

“You don’t have to show so well if you’re an artist. People expect you to live in a peculiar way.”

Cubitt looked at him, but said nothing.

Parish went on defensively: “I’m sorry, but you know what I mean. People expect painters to be Bohemians and all that.”

“There was a time,” said Cubitt, “when actors were content to be ‘Bohemians,’ whatever that may mean. I never know. As far as I am concerned, it means going without things you want.”

“But your pictures sell.”

“On an average I sell six pictures a year. Their prices range from twenty pounds to two hundred. It usually works out at about four hundred. You earn that in as many weeks, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, I’m not grumbling. I’ve got a bit of my own and I could make more, I daresay, if I took pupils or had a shot at commercial art. I’ve suited myself and it’s worked out well enough until—”

“Until what?” asked Parish.

“Nothing. Let’s get on with the work, shall we? The light’s no good after about eleven.”

Parish walked back to the rock, and took up his pose. The light wind whipped his black hair away from his forehead. He raised his chin and stared out over the sea. He assumed an expression of brooding dominance.

“That right?” he asked.

“Pretty well. You only want a pair of tarnished epaulettes and we could call it ‘Elba.’ ”

“I’ve always thought I’d like to play Napoleon.”

“A fat lot you know about Napoleon.”

Parish grinned tranquilly.

“Anyway,” he said, “I’d read him up a bit if I had to. As a matter of fact, Luke looks rather like him.”

“The shoulders should come round,” said Cubitt. “That’s more like it. Yes, Luke is rather the type.”

He painted for a minute or two in silence and then Parish suddenly laughed.

“What’s up?” asked Cubitt.

“Here comes your girl.”

“What the devil do you mean?” demanded Cubitt angrily and looked over his shoulder. “Oh — I see.”

“Violet,” said Parish. “Who did you think it was?”

“I thought you’d gone dotty. Damn the woman!”

“Will she paint me, too?”

“Not if I know it.”

“Unkind to your little Violet?” asked Parish.

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, damn it, she’s not very young and she’s— well, she may be a pest but she’s by way of being a lady.”

“Snob!”

“Don’t be so dense, Seb. Can’t you see — oh Lord, she’s got all her gear. She is going to paint. Well, I’ve just about done for to-day.”

“She’s waving.”

Cubitt looked across the headland to where Miss Darragh, a droll figure against the sky, fluttered a large handkerchief.

“She’s put her stuff down,” said Parish. “She’s going to sketch. What is there to paint over there?”

“A peep,” said Cubitt. “Now, hold hard and don’t talk. There’s a shadow under the lower lip—”

He worked with concentration for five minutes and then put down his palette.

“That’ll do for to-day. We’ll pack up.”

But when he’d hitched his pack on his shoulders and stared out to sea for some seconds, he said suddenly —

“All the same, Seb, I wish you hadn’t told me.”

ii

It was understood among the three friends that each should go his own way during the weeks they spent at Ottercombe. Watchman had played with the notion of going out in the dawn with the fishing boats. He woke before it was light and heard the tramp of heavy boots on cobblestones and the sound of voices down on Ottercombe Steps. He told himself comfortably that here was a link with the past. For hundreds of years the Coombe men had gone down to their boats before dawn. The children of Coombe had heard them stirring, their wives had fed them and seen them go, and for centuries their voices and the sound of their footsteps had roused the village for a moment in the coldest hour of the night. Watchman let the sounds die away, snuggled luxuriously down in his bed, and fell asleep.

He woke again at half-past nine and found that Parish had already breakfasted and set out for Coombe Rock.

“A mortal great mammoth of a picture Mr. Cubitt be at,” said Abel Pomeroy, as Watchman finished his breakfast. “Paint enough to cover a wall, sir, and laid on so thick as dough. At close quarters it looks like one of they rocks covered in shellfish, but ’od rabbit it, my sonnies, when you fall away twenty feet or more, it’s Mr. Parish so clear as glass. Looking out over the Rock he be, looking out to sea, and so natural you’d say the man was smelling the wind and thinking of his next meal. You might fancy a stroll out to the Rock, sir, and take a look at Mr. Cubitt flinging his paint left and right.”

“I feel lazy, Abel. Where’s Will?”

“Went out-along, with the boats, sir.” Abel rasped his chin, scratched his head, and rearranged the objects on the bar.

“He’s restless, is Will,” he said suddenly. “My own boy, Mr. Watchman, and so foreign to me as a changeling.”

“Will is?” asked Watchman, filling his pipe.

“Ah, Will. What with his politics and his notions he’s a right-down stranger to me, is Will. A very witty lad, too, proper learned, and so full of arguments as a politician. He won’t argufy with me, naturally, seeing I’m not his equal in the way of brains, nor anything like it.”

“You’re too modest, Abel,” said Watchman lightly.

“No, sir, no. I can’t stand up to that boy of mine when it comes to politics and he knows it and lets me down light. I’m for the old ways, a right-down Tory, and for why? For no better reason than it suits me, same as it suited my forebears.”

“A sound enough reason.”

“No, sir, not according to my boy. According to Will it be a damn-fool reason and a selfish one into the bargain.”

“I shouldn’t let it worry you.”

“ ‘More I do, Mr. Watchman. It’s not our differences that worry me. It’s just my lad’s restless, mumbudgeting ways. You saw how he was last night. Speaking to you that fashion. Proper ’shamed of him, I was.”

“It was entirely my fault, Abel, I baited him.”

“Right-down generous of you to put it like that but all the same he’s not himself these days. I’d like him to settle down. Tell you the truth, sir, it’s what’s to become of the Feathers that troubles me and it troubles me sore. I’m nigh on seventy, Mr. Watchman. Will’s my youngest. T’other two boys wurr took in war, and one girl’s married and in Canada, and t’other in Australia. Will’ll get the Feathers.”

“I expect,” said Watchman, “that Will’ll grow out of his red ideas and run the pub like any other Pomeroy.”

Old Abel didn’t answer and Watchman added: “When he marries and settles down.”

“And when will that be, sir? Likely you noticed how ’tis between Will and Miss Dessy? Well now, that’s a funny state of affairs, and one I can’t get used to. Miss Dessy’s father’s Jim Moore up yurr to Cary Edge Farm, and an old friend of mine. Good enough. But what happens when Dessy’s a li’l maid no higher than my hand? ’Od rabbit it, if old Jim don’t come in for a windfall. Now his wife being a ghastly proud sort of a female and never tired of letting on she came down in society when she married, what do they do but send young Dessy to a ladies’ school where she gets some kind of free pass into a female establishment at Oxford.”

“Yes. I know.”

“ ’Ess, and comes home at the end of it a dinky lil chit, sure enough, and husband-high; but speaking finicky-like and the equal of all the gentlefolks in the West Country.”

“Well?” said Watchman.

“Well, sir, that’s fair enough. If she fancies our Will above the young sparks she meets in her new walk of life, good enough. I’m proper fond of the maiden, always have been. Good as a daughter to me, and just the same always, no matter how ladylike she’m grown.”

Watchman stood up and stretched himself.

“It sounds idyllic, Abel. A charming romance.”