The clouds blocked the setting summer sun, yet to David the sand was still blindingly gold as he walked along the beach. He'd escaped the party, thank heavens, and now he walked along the beach nearby, kicking sand, trying to stay out of sight. The beach house had windows facing his way, after all, but hopefully everyone would be too drunk by now to notice his absence.

Oh, he hated hosting parties.

They were expensive, first of all, and he didn't really like most of the people who came. They were the children of his parent's friends, his pretty younger sister's friends, the people who had 'good standing' in the region.

For heaven's sake, it's the twentieth century, he thought to himself. Can't a man escape the clinging Victorian customs of having parties simply because you're rich? And of inviting anyone of 'consequence'? Why does social standing still hold so much worth?

At least among young people, it's acceptable to get them drunk, he smiled to himself. It was easier to get out of a party when everyone was inebriated. All of tonight's guests were young, drunk both on summer and on spirits, and he had been able to slip out after making an excuse about needing the loo. The window had squeaked as he opened it, and he'd kicked the wall on accident trying to wriggle out, but everyone was too loud to notice. The constant roar that made his heas throb probably saved him in the end.

So now David walked alone along the Scottish coast, listening only to the waves and the gulls; watching only the water ebb and flow; tasting only the salty air; feeling only the soft wind and gentle rain. He was alone, and he relished it.

Well, he was alone until he was knocked over by a dark- haired young woman.

She spluttered, her hands grasping his forearms for support as they both stood. "I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't looking-"

"Obviously," he muttered, interrupting her, yanking away his arms and wiping his sandy knees with equally sandy hands. "Watch where you're going. We both could have been terribly hurt by your carelessness!"

Her dark eyes, heavily lined with black liner and fringed with too much mascara, blinked up at him as she swayed. Lovely, he thought. A drunk girl out running alone. "I was only trying to get away. There was a rather persistent young man, and-"

"I don't want to hear it," he responded curtly.

"I'm just afraid, sir, that-"

David rolled his eyes and began to walk away. The girl fell atop him again, only this time he didn't fall over.

"Do you have some issue?" he said, controlling his anger only barely, as she grasped his arms again.

"I'm awful sorry, sir, I just- I think my ankle's hurt. That's what caused me to fall, I think. The first time. And second time too, I guess, but-" She stopped speaking quickly and looked down at her feet, which were bare. "The young man had stolen my shoes, he'd had too much to drink and how he got them off I'll never know, but he told me I couldn't run away. 'I'll show you,' I told him, and I ran. Went right out the door barefoot, and into the sand- I was looking back to make sure he wasn't following, and barreled right into you when I hit a soft patch of sand and twisted my ankle. I'm awful sorry."

She bit her lip in a show of nervousness. She looked up at David in silence. "I'm sorry. I talk too much, everybody tells me so, but you don't seem to talk much at all and someone's got to do something with the silence. It can't just hang there."

He must have done something with his face, because the girl looked down and went silent abruptly. She shifted her weight, he could feel it in her grasp, and chewed her red-painted lip. He decided to believe her story- there wasn't any gin on her breath, and the way she gingerly moved her left foot did, indeed, make it seem injured.

"Hey!" came a voice from the direction of the house.

"Oh...!" The girl snapped her head towards the voice, and then back to David. "Would you help me, please? It's him!"

Sure enough, as the wavering- obviously drunk- figure appeared, he had a pair of red women's shoes in one hand and a black umbrella in the other. A young maid followed him, evidently confused.

"I thought you were joking when you said you were going to run," he slurred.

"Well, I wasn't," she replied with bitterness in her voice, but her hands didn't leave David's arms. "You ought to realize that a woman says what she means. Including the word 'no'."

Something in David clicked at that moment, as he saw the sneering young man and felt the girl's trembling grasp. Quickly he transferred her right hand to his shoulder and took the other one. It looked like they had been about to waltz.

"Mr. Douglas, I thought you told me there was a young lady out here who was wild and would need help getting back to the house," the young maid said, grasping her cap against the wind. She held up her umbrella against the rain.

"I have the young lady under my protection," said David with all the elegance of his upbringing. "Go back to the house, Mr. Douglas; besides, you're getting all wet."

The young man and the maid walked back, after a few dirty looks from him and a shrug from her. David smiled at the girl. She looked up at him, awed and grateful.

"Thank you, sir," she smiled.

"Please," he replied, not dropping the dancing position. "Call me David."

I wrote this for English class- we had to write a story based off a painting and the painting I chose was the one at the top! It's not an exact depiction of the painting, but it's close enough. It's The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano.