Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.
“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway, we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys has been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week they take the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come and gape, and listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of the fourth Marchioness of Caterham, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ etc., and Ed or Bert, the humorist of the party, nudges his girl and says ‘Eh! Gladys, they’ve got two pennyworth of pictures here, right enough.’ And then they go and look at more pictures and yawn and shuffle their feet and wish it was time to go home.”
“Yet history has been made here once or twice, by all accounts.”
“You’ve been listening to George,” said Bundle sharply. “That’s the kind of thing he’s always saying.”
But Anthony had raised himself on his elbow, and was staring at the shore.
“Is that a third suspicious stranger I see standing disconsolately by the boat-house? Or is it one of the house party?”
Bundle lifted her head from the scarlet cushion.
“It’s Bill,” she said.
“He seems to be looking for something.”
“He’s probably looking for me,” said Bundle, without enthusiasm.