`I was lookin' at these legs,' replied the other.
`What's up with 'em? They look all right,' replied Paul, from his bed.
`They look all right. But there's some water in 'em yet.'
`And what about it?'
`Come and look.'
Paul reluctantly got out of bed and went to look at the rather handsome legs of the other man that were covered with glistening, dark gold hair.
`Look here,' said Dawes, pointing to his shin. `Look at the water under here.'
`Where?' said Paul.
The man pressed in his finger-tips. They left little dents that filled up slowly.
`It's nothing,' said Paul.
`You feel,' said Dawes.
Paul tried with his fingers. It made little dents.
`H'm!' he said.
`Rotten, isn't it?' said Dawes.
`Why? It's nothing much.'
`You're not much of a man with water in your legs.'
`I can't see as it makes any difference,' said Morel. `I've got a weak chest.'
He returned to his own bed.
`I suppose the rest of me's all right,' said Dawes, and he put out the light.
In the morning it was raining. Morel packed his bag. The sea was grey and shaggy and dismal. He seemed to be cutting himself off from life more and more. It gave him a wicked pleasure to do it.
The two men were at the station. Clara stepped out of the train, and came along the platform, very erect and coldly composed. She wore a long coat and a tweed hat. Both men hated her for her composure. Paul shook hands with her at the barrier. Dawes was leaning against the bookstall, watching. His black overcoat was buttoned up to the chin because of the rain. He was pale, with almost a touch of nobility in his quietness. He came forward, limping slightly.
`You ought to look better than this,' she said.
`Oh, I'm all right now.'
The three stood at a loss. She kept the two men hesitating near her.
`Shall we go to the lodging straight off,' said Paul, `or somewhere else?'
`We may as well go home,' said Dawes.