"What a gale that was last night!" he said, as he languidly helped himself to devilled kidneys. "By George! the picnic party must have found it pretty lively coming back. It blew a hurricane! But I suppose they were in before that?"
"They were," assented Mr. Lisle—and whatever else he was going to add was interrupted by the appearance of one of the boatmen in his blue cotton suit, salaaming profoundly at the foot of the verandah steps. He had something in his hand. What? It was the miserable wreck of a lady's smart, cream-coloured parasol! A jaunty article, that had tempted Helen's fancy in a London shop window, and was now a mere limp rag, cockled and shrunken with sea-water—having been thrown into the bottom of the boat and there forgotten.
"Halloa!" exclaimed Mr. Quentin. "What is that?"
"Miss Denis's parasol, which was left in the gig. I brought her back from North Bay last night," replied his companion, with as much composure as if it were a part of his daily programme.
The other made no immediate reply, but turning half round in his chair, surveyed him steadily for some seconds.
"You brought her back?" he repeated incredulously. "And why, in the name of all that's extraordinary?"
"For the very excellent reason that she wished to be my passenger," returned Mr. Lisle, coolly.
"I hate riddles"—irritably. "What the deuce do you mean?"
"I mean that Miss Denis was left behind by her party owing to some very queer mistake, that I happened to be sailing by, like Canute the king, and that she hailed the boat, and we took her off."
"Quite romantic, upon my word"—with a rather forced laugh. "Well," after a pause, "now that you have seen her, what do you think of her?"