"You are surprised to see me, Luce?" he said.
"Of course I am," she replied. "I'd no idea where you were. I've written to you—twice."
"Have you?" he said. "That was good of you. I've not had your letters; but that's my fault, not yours. I told Sparling not to send any letters on."
She looked down, as if rather embarrassed, and dug at the interstices of the rough stone pavement with her dainty, and altogether unnautical, sunshade.
"But what are you doing here?" she asked. "And—and what's the matter with your arm? Isn't that a sling?"
"Yes, it's a sling," he said casually. "I'd been hunting with the Devon and Somerset; I found London unbearable, and I came down here suddenly. I meant to write and tell you; but just then I wasn't in the humor to write to any one, even to you. I lost my way in one of the runs, and was riding down the top of the hill here, riding carelessly, I'll admit, for when the horse shied, I was chucked off. I broke my arm and knocked my head. Oh, don't trouble," he added hastily, as if to ward off her commiseration. "I am all right now; the arm will soon be in working order again."
"I'm very sorry," she said, lifting her eyes to his, but only for a moment. "You look rather pulled down and seedy."
"Oh, I'm all right," he said. "And now, as I have explained my presence here, perhaps you will explain yours."
"I've come here in the Seagull," she said. "Father's on board. He said you'd offered to lend the yacht to him—you did, I suppose?"
Drake nodded indifferently.