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I moved forward down a valley of the sandhills to where the girl was standing with her back to me. She was dressed in some dark manner, black or blue, and she was staring at the boat and at the running surf, as I had done. And I came quietly through the deep sand till I was very dose to her, fingering my apple, and I said: “That would make a dry point, Achaersen could do it, but he couldn’t get it into the Academy, could he?”

She swung round on me. “You should have stayed up by the lorry. It’s no good your trying to get on board yet. There’s half a dozen carpet sweepers to come off.” And then she said: “Is Peter coming down?”

I didn’t understand what she was saying; I was tired, and I was very lonely. I had nothing but my apple. “You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m not going to sea tonight. I’m tired. I think I’m going home.”

She leaned forward suddenly and stared into my face, and I can remember a look of great anxiety, of terror, as she stared at me.

“Who are you?” she exclaimed. “There’s something wrong. You’re not the man who was here before. You’re English.”