“Well met!”
She started at the voice—a genuine start. Truth to tell she coloured.
“This is a piece of luck,” went on the speaker. He had been talking with one of the men, and both being behind a large fishing boat, Olive had not noticed them. “I had no idea any of your flock pastured here.”
“Yes, they do. But it isn’t often I do anything in the way of shepherding them. That isn’t in my line at all. In fact—I—I hate it.”
The candour of this avowal was delicious. They both burst out laughing.
“I can more than half believe that,” he said. “But then why don’t you delegate the rôle of Lord High Almoner to someone else? There’s Turner, for instance. It would be just in his line, I should think.”
A queer look, a wicked look, came into the girl’s face at the mention of Turner.
“He wouldn’t undertake it for me. He’s angry with me. Mr Dorrien, don’t you hate clergymen?”
“Truth compels me to state that I’m not partial to them as a rule.”
“Oh, indeed? And why don’t you look shocked at my question and say, ‘Er—not very flattering to your father, is it?’ or something to that effect? That’s how you ought to retort, by every known rule,” said Olive, wickedly demure.