Calvert smiled graciously at hearing himself quoted.
It was the one sort of flattery he liked the best, and it rallied him out of his dark humour. “Are you ready?”—he had almost added “dearest,” and only caught himself in time—perhaps, indeed, not completely in time—for she blushed, as she said, “Eccomi.”
The sisters affectionately embraced each other. Emily even ran after Florence to kiss her once again, after parting, and then Florry took Calvert’s arm, and hastened away to the jetty. “I declare,” said she, as she stepped into the boat, “this leave-taking habit, when one is going out to ride, or to row, or to walk for an hour, is about the stupidest thing I know of.”
“I always said so. It’s like making one’s will every day before going down to dinner. It is quite true you may chance to die before the dessert, but the mere possibility should not interfere with your asking for soup. No, no, Florry, you are to steer; the tiller is yours for to-day; my post is here;” and he stretched himself at the bottom of the boat, and took out his cigar. The light breeze was just enough to move the little lateen sail, and gradually it filled out, and the skiff stole quietly away from shore, without even a ripple on the water.
“What’s the line, Florry?’ Hope at the helm, pleasure at the prow,’ or is it love at the helm?”
“A bad steersman, I should say; far too capricious,” cried she, laughing.
“I don’t know. I think he has one wonderful attribute; he has got wings to fly away with whenever the boat is in danger, and I believe it is pretty much what love does always.”
“Can’t say,” said she, carelessly. “Isn’t that a net yonder? Oughtn’t we to steer clear of it?”
“Yes. Let her fall off—so—that’s enough. What a nice light hand you have.”
“On a horse they tell me my hand is very light.”