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not his employees' home help. He was no snob, nor did he enlarge upon his exploits or his boats, though she asked several leading questions, which he evaded skilfully. So he was no boaster either. She did learn that his parents were still alive, though his father was about to retire from the business, and he had a married sister whose husband was managing director, being responsible for it during Gray’s frequent absences.
    ‘I can’t bear being cooped up indoors,’ he confessed, ‘but Sandy doesn’t like speedboats, except to sell them, so we work well together, except when he grumbles at me for overspending.’
    Frances recalled that Ian had told her speedboat racing was a rich man’s sport and wondered if Gray were too extravagant for his firm’s resources, but that was no concern of hers, as he would be the first to tell her.
    She was conscious that he looked at her a great deal and hoped that he liked what he saw, but it might be he was trying to discover what Ian saw in her, since he persisted in thinking the boy fancied her.
    'What do you want to do now?' he asked, when they reached the coffee stage.
    ‘I suppose I ought to go back.’ She looked wistfully at the sea. If she had been alone she would have wandered round the little town, but she could not expect him to wait about for her.
    ‘But it’s your day off and it’s not nearly over yet. We might go and look at the white sands of Morar. I keep a car here, it's useful for getting about.’
    ‘I’d love that,’ she said eagerly.
    Gray’s car was what she expected, a low-slung powerful sports model. He drove her up the hill out of Mallaig, and over the river between Loch Morar and the sea, that cascades in falls on either side of the road. The rhododendrons, which arc prolific in that country, were beginning to come into bloom, and there were little fresh water pools full of yellow waterlilies. He took the road towards Arisaig with the estuary to their right, and the sands actually were white. They left the car and walked down to the water’s edge.
    ‘It’s lovely,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wish . . .’ she stopped.
    She could not express a desire to paddle in his august company, but he seemed to divine her thought.
    ‘Take off your sandals, if you want to walk on the sand, then you won’t get them wet, but don’t go too far.’
    She slipped her feet out of them, and he picked them up. ‘I’m going back to the car, I’ve some papers I want to look at.
    He went off carrying her sandals, and Frances ran barefooted through the clear shallow water and over the white sand. The clear, pure air went to her head like wine, the wide expanse of sea and sky gave a delicious sense of complete freedom. She took off her cap and her hair fell about her shoulders, stirred by the breeze. Intriguing shells caught her attention, and she began to collect them, filling her discarded cap, forgetting completely whom she was with, ‘Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,' she sang softly. ‘Over the sea to Skye’, and waved her hand to the islands, of which there was a glorious view.
    Gray’s voice recalled her from her enchanted world, with the realisation that she was not behaving like a home help.
    ‘Come back—the tide comes in like a racehorse and it’s on the turn!’
    He had left the car and had followed her some distance along the water’s edge. She came back towards him wondering for how long he had been watching her, still clutching her cap full of trophies, her exhilaration fading.
    ‘Whatever must you think of me?’ she cried as she came within earshot.
    ‘That there's been a mistake in your birth certificate. You must be thirteen, not—what is it?— twenty-three.’
    He was smiling with obvious amusement as he surveyed her, and she became painfully conscious of her splashed skirt and flowing hair.
    'I'm sorry, Gray,’ she said humbly. ‘This is an enchanted place and something, I don’t know what, got into me. I ... I must look a