‘You have told me something of the kind already. You refused a wager I offered you last Monday afternoon, because it would have been “betting on a certainty.” And yet, as the event proved, I should have won.’
‘The event will prove that you do not win now.’
There was more than a threat of impatience in Gaston Arbuthnot’s voice.
‘And you do accept my bet, then? You do stake a pair of gloves that you are—that you will land at Alderney with Robbie and myself?’
‘If you are bent upon giving me a pair of gloves, Mrs. Thorne,—iron-gray, seven and a half,—I shall accept them with pleasure.’
‘Done! The bargain is concluded. My number, as you know, is six and a quarter, Jouvin’s best. I wear eight buttons. And now,’ added Linda, preparing to move away, ‘I must find our hosts, and make excuses. Had I not better offer them on your behalf, too?’
‘You are too kind to me, Mrs. Thorne. I think I have just courage enough to pull through the emergency, unassisted.’
Lord Rex was still lingering in Dinah’s neighbourhood when Linda tripped airily across to the gangway, Gaston Arbuthnot following her.
‘Doctor Thorne and I have to thank you, all, for quite one of the most perfect excursions in the world. I shall put a mark against the subaltern’s picnic,’ said Linda, diplomatically. ‘It has been one of the true red-letter days of my life.’
‘Don’t talk of the picnic as over, Mrs. Thorne. The subalterns look forward to some hours more of your society, even without the promised fog.’