In the meantime Miss Millicent Chyne was walking on the sea-wall at
the end of the garden with Guy Oscard. One of the necessary
acquirements of a modern educational outfit is the power of looking
perfectly at home in a score of different costumes during the year,
and, needless to say, Miss Chyne was finished in this art. The
manner in which she wore her sailor-hat, her blue serge, and her
neat brown shoes conveyed to the onlooker, and especially the male
of that species (we cannot in conscience call them observers), the
impression that she was a yachtswoman born and bred. Her delicate
complexion was enhanced by the faintest suspicion of sunburn and a
few exceedingly becoming freckles. There was a freedom in her
movements which had not been observable in London drawing-rooms.
This was Diana-like and in perfect keeping with the dainty sailor
outfit; moreover, nine men out of ten would fail to attribute the
difference to sundry cunning strings within the London skirt.
"It is sad," Millicent was saying, "to think that we shall have no
more chances of sailing. The wind has quite dropped, that horrid
tide is running, and--this is your last day."
She ended with a little laugh, knowing full well that there was
little sentiment in the big man by her side.
"Really," she went on, "I think I should be able to manage a boat in
time, don't you think so? Please encourage me.
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