over the sea this morning, a madder impulse that had sent her to
Thimble Island of all places, upon which she had descended with an
audacity and a recklessness which surprised even herself. She
realized that a while ago she had lied glibly to Markham about her
mishap. Her Bleriot had _not_ missed fire. From the perch of her
lofty reconnaissance she had espied the painter working at his canvas,
but her notion of visiting him she knew had been born not this
morning, but last night when she had sat alone on the terrace and
watched the pale moon wreathing fitfully among the clouds which
hovered uncertainly off-shore. She had come to Thimble Island simply
because impulse had led her here, and because she was accustomed, with
possible reservations, to follow her impulses wherever they might lead
her. That they had led her to Markham signified nothing except that
she found herself more curious about him than she had supposed herself
to be.

Her plans for the morning had provided for a brief landing while she
tinkered with the machine, scorning his proffers of help; for a snub,
if he chose to take advantage of their slight acquaintance; and for a
triumphant departure when her pride and her curiosity had been
appeased. Her plans had not included the miscalculation of distance
and the projecting branch of the tree which had been her undoing. She
found it difficult to scorn the proffers of help of a man who helped
without proffering. It was impossible to snub a man for taking
advantage of a slight acquaintance when he refused to remember that
such an acquaintance had ever existed. The triumphant departure now
refused to be triumphant or indeed even a departure. At the present
moment her pride and her curiosity still clamored and Markham in his
worried, absent-minded way was repaying her with kindness--a kindness
every moment of which increased Hermia's obligation and diminished her