"A sail?" said McClintock. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. “But you must forgive me, John. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint.
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