Mrs.Marsett looked ahead and coloured, but she could not restrain one look at Nesta, that embraced her cavalier.

Nesta waved hand to her, and nodded.

Mrs.Marsett withdrew her eyes; her doing so, silent though it was, resembled the drag back to sea of the shingle-wave below her, such a screaming of tattle she heard in the questions discernible through the attitude of the cavalier and of the lady, who paused to stare, before the leap up in the saddle.

'Who is she ?--what is she ?--how did you know her ?--where does she come from ?--wears her hat on her brows!--huge gauntlets out of style!--shady! shady! shady!' And as always during her nervous tumults, the name of Worrell made diapason of that execrable uproar.

Her hat on her brows had an air of dash, defying a world it could win, as Ned well knew.