Gwen turned her head slightly that her eyes might rest on the man's goodly length of limb, the shapely hands, the rather rugged but wholly attractive face under the yachting cap. The brilliant eyes were turned away. If only she could see into their clear brown depths and bring again that intense expression she had beheld more than once. In spite of the discouragement which met her first efforts she felt the opportunity to be as golden as the light which glorified land and sea, and she took her courage in both hands. It was now or never. "I haven't seen you for such a long, long time," she said a little tremulously. "At least I haven't had a chat with you. Did you get some good sketches that foggy day when I met you on the road?"
"Fairly good ones," was the none too responsive answer.
"I'd love to see them."
No reply, only a tightening of the lips.
"Dear me," thought Gwen, "it is going to be harder than I imagined. I shall have to go to greater lengths. I am not to be met half way at all. It seems perfectly dreadful," she began again, "to think of all the lovely things you may have been doing, and that I have not seen one of them."
"You are very good to speak so flatteringly of my poor efforts."
"Ice," thought Gwen, "snow-balls similarly, and all the frozen things combined. I shall have to take another tack. I saw you at the Hall last night. Why didn't you stay to the dance?"
"I was tired."
"Nothing doing in that direction," Gwen told herself in girlish vernacular. "Well, there are two good hours before us. I shall have to thaw him out in some way. Suppose, just suppose it should be my last chance in life to meet him undisturbed." She ventured again. "The summer is almost over. Shall you be sorry to leave the island, Mr. Hilary?"
"For most reasons, no. I have made pretty good use of its possibilities for one season."