“Yes,” Cecil admitted. “I embarked on these—these enterprises mainly to escape boredom.”
“You ought to marry,” said Rainshore pointedly. “You ought to marry, my friend.”
“I have my yacht.”
“No doubt. And she’s a beauty, and feminine too; but not feminine enough. You ought to marry. Now, I’ll——”
Mr. Rainshore paused. His daughter had suddenly ceased to eat chocolates and was leaning over the balustrade in order to converse with a tall, young man whose fair, tanned face and white hat overtopped the carved masonry and were thus visible to the millionaires. The latter glanced at one another and then glanced away, each slightly self-conscious.
“I thought Mr. Vaux-Lowry had left?” said Cecil.
“He came back last night,” Rainshore replied curtly. “And he leaves again to-night.”
“Then—then it’s a match after all!” Cecil ventured.
“Who says that?” was Simeon’s sharp inquiry.
“The birds of the air whisper it. One heard it at every corner three days ago.”