CHAPTER VIII.
"Tell me, Mr.Lessingham," Philippa insisted, "exactly what are you thinking of?
You looked so dark and mysterious from the ridge below that I've climbed up on purpose to ask you." Lessingham held out his hand to steady her.

They were standing on a sharp spur of the cliffs, the north wind blowing in their faces, thrashing into little flecks of white foam the sea below, on which the twilight was already resting.

For a moment or two neither of them could speak.
"I was thinking of my country," he confessed.

"I was looking through the shadows there, right across the North Sea." "To Germany ?" He shook his head.
"Further away--to Sweden." "I forgot," she murmured.

"You looked as though you were posing for a statue of some one in exile," she observed.