“I do not think you love flowers as I do, Mr. De Vinne.”
“I will be honest, Miss Renville, I prefer fish. Now, could I induce you to come with me on the river this morning?”
“I am no great lover of Father Thames,” she replied. “I have been in his embrace once and it was not very pleasant.”
“They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place,” remarked Jack, “and I don’t think you are in any danger of falling overboard again. If you refuse I shall consider it as a personal reflection upon my ability as a sailor.”
“Oh, Mr. De Vinne, you must not think that I meant such a thing. It is no lack of confidence in you; it is the other fellow who doesn’t know how to manage a boat that I’m afraid of. I am a pretty good sailor myself, and I could have swum ashore that day had I not been encumbered with my dress. Women are at a great disadvantage, on account of their dress, in all sports and games.”
“Well,” said Jack, “if you object to a voyage on the briny deep, what do you say to a land trip? I have no doubt Mr. Glynne has a turnout in his stable. Do you know I am a great admirer of the poet Gray? You know he is buried at Stoke Pogis, not very far from here. I should be delighted to go there, and it will add greatly to my pleasure if you will accompany me.”
Bertha smiled archly. “I have heard that sailors make very poor landsmen and know very little about horses.”
“Oh, now, you’re joking me, Miss Renville.” A cloud passed over his face and his voice grew grave.
“Pardon me, Mr. De Vinne, I have to supply the fun for the family. Perhaps my familiarity with those whom I meet every day has led me to be wanting in the respect due to a stranger.”
“How can you call me a stranger?” cried Jack.