“Dear, dear!” said Diana, unimpressed.
Nothing really impressed Diana. She had, she boasted, passed the impressionable age.
Gordon had come to admit to himself that she was pretty; in a way she was beautiful. She had blue eyes, willow pattern blue, and a skin like satin. He admitted that her figure was rather lovely. If she had been older or younger, if her hair had not been bobbed—if she had a little more respect for wisdom, an appreciation of thought, a little something of hero-worship!
He strolled gloomily to the window and stared blankly into the dusk. Diana was an insoluble problem.
Trenter came in at that moment.
“Yes, sir.” The butler crossed to his employer.
“Do you see that man on the other side of the road—that red-faced man?”
It was the stranger of the skiff. Gordon recognised him at once.
“I’ve seen him before to-day ... rather a coincidence.”