84 The Light That Failed “Try to behave like one,” said Dick, promptly. “Quite right. Now we'll get some lunch and go on to Fort Keeling, — unless you’d rather drive there?” “We must walk, out of respect to the place. How little changed it all is!” They turned in the direction of the sea through unaltered streets, and the influence of old things lay upon them. Presently they passed a confectioner’s shop much considered in the days when their joint pocketmoney amounted to a shilling a week. “Dick, have you any pennies?” said Maisie, half to herself. “Only three; and if you think you’re going to have two of em to buy peppermints with, you're wrong. She says peppermints aren’t ladylike.” Again they laughed, and again the color came into Maisie’s cheeks as the blood boiled through Dick’s heart. After a large lunch they went down to the beach and to Fort Keeling across the waste, wind-bitten land that no builder had thought it worth his while to defile. The winter breeze came in from the sea and sang about their ears. “Maisie,” said Dick, “your nose is getting a crude Prussian blue at the tip. I’ll race you as far as you please for as much as you please.” She looked round cautiously, and with a laugh set off, swiftly as the ulster allowed, till she was out of breath. “We used to run miles,” she panted. “It’s absurd that we can’t run now.” “Old age, dear. This it is to get fat and sleek in town. When I wished to pull you hair you generally ran for three miles, shrieking at the top of your voice. I ought to know, because those shrieks of yours were meant to call up Mrs. Jennett with a cane and —” “Dick, I never got you a beating on purpose in my