“Which means a reproof to me, Harry. My aunt never comes out on any less solemn mission.”
“And why a reproof? What have you done?” “Have I not gone off sailing all alone with that wild scamp Harry Luttrell—that buccaneer who respects neither laws nor proprieties! But that’s my aunt’s voice! What is she saying?”
“She’s telling the lawyer that it’s all his fault, or Sir Gervais’s fault, or somebody’s fault, and that it’s a shame and disgrace, and I don’t know well what else besides.”
“What can it be?”
“Just what you said a minute ago. There! I’ll wait for them. I’ll slack off and let them come up.”
Whatever might have been the rebukeful tone of Miss Courtenay’s voice a few moments before, now, as the boat drew up beside Luttrell’s, her tones were softened and subdued, and it was with her most silvery accent she told Ada that some visitors had just arrived, and begged her to return with her to receive them, while Mr. M’Kinlay would join Mr. Luttrell, and obtain the lesson in sea-fishing he was so eager for.
“Come along,” said Harry. “It looks fresh outside, and may turn out a nice mackerel day, calm as it seems here.”
“With your good leave, Sir, I shall decline a nice mackerel day. I’m a very fair-weather sailor.”
A hurried whisper from Georgina seemed, however, to arrest him in his excuses, and she added aloud: “Of course Mr. Luttrell has no intention of venturing out to sea farther than you like, Sir. He goes for your pleasure and amusement, and not to educate you for the Navy.”
Another hurried whisper followed this pert speech, and poor M’Kinlay, with the air of a condemned man, stepped into Luttrel’s boat with a heavy sigh, and a look of positive misery.