After this he fell into a period of silence, from which all the arts of Rosalind Chalmers were unable to extricate him, save for fitful and brief intervals. Ordinarily, she would not have wasted her time upon such a dull and diffident young man; she would have taken his manner as an affront to her natural claims upon masculine attention.
But in this instance Rosalind's curiosity was piqued. She could not reconcile him with his reputation. If ever a devil-may-care spirit lurked in this beefy youth, something supernatural had exorcised it.
"Your island," she said, pointing.
"Looks all right," he commented, after a moment of staring.
"You don't seem particularly glad to see it."
He merely shrugged.
"Your uncle's yacht went to Kingston, I believe, to obtain some supplies."
"That's good."
"That's why Mr. Witherbee sent his own boat."
"Mighty kind of him, I'm sure."