Part 24 (2/2)
To his consternation the smile vanished, as though a cloud had sailed before the sun. Doubt and something strongly resembling incredulity informed her glance.
”Do you mean to say you don't _know_?” she demanded after a moment.
”Believe me, I've no least idea--”
”But surely Mr. Ember must have told you?”
”Ember seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that the Fiske place was without a tenant.”
”Oh!”
”And I'm sure he was sincere. Otherwise it's certain wild horses couldn't have dragged him back to New York.”
”Oh!” Her tone was thoughtful. ”So he has gone back to town?”
”Business called him. At least such was the plausible excuse he advanced for depriving himself of my exclusive society.”
”I see,” she nodded--”I see....”
”But aren't you going to tell me? Or ought I to prove my human intelligence by a.s.suming on logical grounds that you're Miss Fiske?”
”If you please,” she murmured absently, her intent gaze seeking the distances of the sea.
”Then that's settled,” he pursued in accents of satisfaction. ”You are Miss Fiske--Christian name at present unknown to deponent. I am one Whitaker, as already deposed--baptized Hugh. And we are neighbours. Do you know, I think this a very decent sort of a world after all?”
”And still”--she returned to the charge--”you haven't told me what you mean to do, since you refuse my help.”
”I mean,” he a.s.serted cheerfully, ”to sit here, aping Patience on a monument, until some kind-hearted person fetches me a stick or other suitable piece of wood to serve as emergency staff. Then I shall make s.h.i.+ft to hobble to your motor-boat and thank you very kindly for ferrying me home.”
”Very well,” she said with a business-like air. ”Now we understand one another, I'll see what I can find.”
Reviewing their surroundings with a swift and comprehensive glance, she shook her head in dainty annoyance, stood for an instant plunged in speculation, then, light-footed, darted from sight round the side of the bath-house.
He waited, a tender nurse to his ankle, smiling vaguely at the benign sky.
Presently she reappeared, dragging an eight-foot pole, which, from certain indications, seemed to have been formerly dedicated to the office of clothes-line prop.
”Will this do?”
Whitaker took it from her and weighed it with anxious judgment.
”A trifle tall, even for me,” he allowed. ”Still....”
He rose on one foot and tested the staff with his weight. ”'Twill do,”
he decided. ”And thank you very much.”
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