But
some impulse told him to turn to the right, and he began to wander
westward along the edge of the cliffs--always on his left hand, space
and the sea, and on his right, lawns or gardens or parapets crowned
by cactus plants in urns, and behind these a great variety of
houses--French chateaux and marble palaces and nice little white
cottages, and, finally, a frowning Gothic castle. All alike seemed
asleep, with empty piazzas and closed shutters, and the only sign of
life he saw in any of them was one pale housemaid shaking a duster out
of a window in an upper gable.
At last he came to a break in the cliffs--a cove, with a beach in it,
a group of buildings obviously bathing-houses. The sacredness of this
pavilion did not occur to Ben; indeed, there was nothing to suggest
it. He entered it light-heartedly and was discouraged to find the door
of every cabin securely locked. The place was utterly deserted. But
Ben was persistent, and presently he detected a bit of a garment
hanging over a door, and, pulling it out, he found himself in
possession of a man's bathing suit. A little farther on he discovered
a telephone room unlocked. Here he undressed and a minute later was
swimming straight out to sea.
The level rays of the sun were doing to the water just what the
headlights of the motors had done to the road; they were enlarging
every ripple and edging the deep purple-blue with yellow light.
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