“I was on the pier,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. “I had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore—”
“Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly.
“Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I was horribly burnt—wasn’t I, Hilary?”
Hilary began to pat the dog.
“Then we got to know one another.”
“Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Hilary blushed.
“Well, we were both always on the pier,” she explained. “And—and somehow Hilary got to know father, and—and father introduced him to me.”
“I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed.
“And then you know, father wasn’t always there; and once or twice we met on the cliff. Do you remember that morning, Hilary?”
“What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the dog with immense assiduity.