“I find you are a friend of a special pet of mine, Mysie Merrifield,” said the father.
“I know her a little,” stammered Vera, “but Primrose best.”
“Nearer your age, eh? But Mysie is our gem! It looks fit for going on deck.”
After the apology for a dinner, the young married pair went their way, he to endeavour to add a fish to their provisions, she to look on; the father and Delrio went where the latter could best study the wonderful tints of sunset over the purple retreating clouds, and the still agitated foaming sea,—sights that seemed to be filling him with enchantment, and revealing effects in colour, while his delight was evidently a new pleasure to his companion.
Vera was afraid to move, and sat on a deck chair, with her back to the sunset, while Phyllis, who perhaps would have liked to share in the admiration, sat by her, so that Vera began to accept her as a special friend, and to pour out the explanation of how she came to be tossing in an open boat with this one companion.
“You see, poor fellow,” she said, simpering, “he has been always so devoted to me. Everybody observed it, and I could not help just gratifying him a little.”
“He does seem to be very full of promise,” said Phyllis. “I suppose Miss Prescott is much pleased with him.”
“My sister Magdalen, do you mean? Well, we have not introduced him to her yet. You see, he is only painting the church, and she is so devoted to swells, and makes such a fuss about our manners.”
“Indeed! But surely you could not go out with him without her knowing it.”
“She was not at this St. Milburgha’s Guild, you know, and Sisters Beata and Mena knew all about it. Oh, yes, she lets us go to them at St. Kenelm’s, but they are not swells enough for her.”