Part 44 (2/2)

They had gone in the direction of the seat. A smile found place on her face; so far all was well. Then she tried on two or three hats. Was anxious to look her best; she knew that she could talk so much better when sure of her appearance. Sadness tinged her reflection; the beauty of her millinery would be wasted in the darkness.

Then, with a sigh--she was a woman, with all a woman's belief in millinery's power--she hoped that not much talking would be needed.

Silence and a good profile were more reliable. She looked at the clock: the minutes dragged slowly.

At a quarter to five she left the cottage. Before the hour reached the end of the Parade. An east wind was blowing. As she neared the seat the odour of cigars came to her, borne on the wind from which the smokers were sheltered. Then she advanced.

”Hullo, Sis!”

d.i.c.k started to his feet as if she were an apparition, spoke in an exaggerated tone of surprise; continuing:

”Who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?”

She could have soundly boxed his ears for him--well-meaning d.i.c.k--for so overdoing it. He could not have exhibited more surprise had he thought her dropped from the clouds. Brothers really are terribly trying at times.

Perhaps it was as well for him that he slowly moved away. Apparently he evinced a judicious, if sudden, interest in moonlight conchology.

Anyway, he devoted his attention to some of the common objects of the sea-sh.o.r.e.

That d.i.c.k did move off was the essential point. She saw, with relief, that he had sense enough for that. The sound of the whistling of ”Rule Britannia” gradually died away in the distance.

Masters had risen to his feet the moment his eyes fell on her. Stood there doubtful what he should do. She did not leave him in doubt long; advanced towards him, and stretching out her hand, said:

”Prince Charlie, I am--oh, I am so sorry! Please forgive me!”

It was a lame speech. She was surprised at, ashamed of, herself. She had rehea.r.s.ed what she had intended saying all the afternoon. Now it came to the point she could not remember a word.

Whatever she might think of her own words they were an immense surprise to Masters. He took her extended hand, common courtesy compelled him to that, and said gently:

”Forgive? You are surely--oh, I have nothing to forgive!”

”You have!”

She insisted with a charming insistence. Somehow her eyes got to need mopping with her handkerchief--a lace handkerchief with a singularly pretty border, by the way.

”I have b-behaved”--she mopped on--”like a wicked wretch t-to you.”

Of course, with a man of Masters' temperament it was most effective; she was playing an ideal game. Some men are used to tears; come to look upon them as an unavoidable factor in their dealings with women. The author had not reached that stage: probably never would.

A woman crying, or in distress, never failed to appeal to him. Perhaps Mrs. Seton-Carr knew that. Women are very subtle; their intuition is no mythical possession. Any way, she played that handkerchief of hers for all it was worth.

Masters still stood hesitating; was genuinely anxious and full of wonder: what he ought to do. Thoughts of eau de Cologne occurred to him.

He knew women found relief in that kind of thing; but he bent over her and said:

”I beg you--oh, I beg, earnestly, you will not distress yourself.”

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