“And why don’t you look shocked at my answer and say, ‘Er—kindly remember that you are reflecting on my father’? That’s how you ought to retort, etc, etc.”
“Because,” answered Olive, when she had recovered from the laughter into which his quizzical reply had launched her, “because I know you were making an exception in his favour as well as you knew I was. So we are agreed on that head.”
“Quite so. There’s nothing like a good understanding to begin with. And now by way of trying whether it’ll continue, let’s see if you’ll fall in with my idea. We must go for a sail. How does that idea strike you?”
“As perfection,” she rejoined, looking up at him with a light laugh. “Jem Pollock has the lightest boat here, but even that’s a shocking tub.”
It was. By the time they had put a couple of hundred yards between themselves and the beach Roland was fain to admit the justice of the stigma.
“Where are we going to?” asked Olive, as he suddenly turned the boat’s head and coasted along the shore.
“The Skegs. I’ve set my heart on exploring that pinnacle of scare, and was waiting until you could go with me. You were the first to unfold its dread mysteries, and you shall be the first to aid me in braving them.”
“Oh! But—I’m just the very least little bit afraid.”
“Naturally.”
“It’s fortunate—or unfortunate—you didn’t say where you intended going, or Jem Pollock wouldn’t have let us have his boat for love or money.”