Mrs. Blunden shook her head, and glanced from him to Florence, as she had done more than once already. But she gained nothing by her scrutiny, for the face of her niece was turned from her, and she was listening with apparent interest to an extraordinary dream that had visited Mrs. Wilson’s slumbers.
“There is something here that I can’t quite comprehend,” muttered Aunt Margaret. “I shall watch them closely, and draw my own conclusions.”
She had but scant opportunities for carrying out her intentions. Mr. Aylwinne planned one of the sailing excursions for which the boys had been teasing him, and in high spirits they all set forth, except Florence, who was anxious to write a long letter to Susan Denham, and stayed at home for this purpose. She related all that she had learned from Mr. Aylwinne, and advised Susan to send some advertisements to the New York papers, worded in such a manner that they would be likely to catch the eye of Julia, and assure her of her cousin’s wish that she would return to England.
It was late before the boating party returned—so late that Florence was beginning to feel surprised, if not uneasy, at their absence—when Mr. Aylwinne came in alone.
She threw down her work, and rose to meet him.
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing that need alarm you. Our friends have been detained by an hospitable acquaintance of Mrs. Blunden’s, who insists that they stay to take tea with her; and I came to acquaint you with the reason of the delay, and to ask you if you will join them.”
“I had rather not,” said Florence, who still shrank from the gay, gossiping people in whom her Aunt Margaret delighted.
Mr. Aylwinne did not press her going, but he said:
“It is not right that you should lose the whole of this lovely day indoors. Will you not walk along the beach to meet them?”