Mr. Cantle, thoughtfully nursing his jaw, with a frown on his face, had left off punting.
“Don’t you know him?” he said suddenly.
“We exchange civilities,” answered the other; “the freemasonry of the river, you understand. There’s the Varleys’ boat.”
Forging under the Victoria Bridge, they had come in view of a long line of houseboats moored under the left bank against a withy bed, opposite the Home Park. At one of these, hight the “Mermaid,” very large and handsome, they came to, and fastening on, stepped aboard. A sound of murmuring ceased with their arrival, and Cantle had hardly become aware of two figures seated in the saloon, before he was being introduced to one of them.
Miss Varley was certainly “interesting”—tall and “English,” but with an exhausted air, and her eyes superhumanly large. She greeted the stranger sweetly, and her fiancé with a rather full, pathetic look.
“Mamma’s resting a little,” she said, in a bodiless voice, “and Nanna’s been reading to me. Papa comes down by the seven o’clock train.”
“And what’s Nanna been reading?” asked the young man.
The old nurse held up the volume. It was the Holy Book. Monk ground his teeth.
“Hush, Master Ivo!” whispered the woman. “You only distress her.”
“I’d rather see her reading a yellow-back on a July day on the river.”