“Why?” she asked, without looking round.
At all events she would throw the burden of an elucidation upon him. He was not afraid of taking it up.
“It’s this,” he answered. “I’ve rather thrust my acquaintance upon you, and, if I stay here until my people come, I can’t exactly change my seat and go and sit at the other end of the table, nor pretend to be busy all day, and never come out here and sit with you, after telling you repeatedly that I have nothing on earth to do. Can I?”
“Because Mrs. Bowring doesn’t like me.”
Clare rose from her elbows and stood up, resting her hands upon the wall, but still looking down at the lights on the beach.
“I assure you, you’re quite mistaken,” she answered, with quiet emphasis. “My mother thinks you’re very nice.”
“Then why—” Johnstone checked himself, and crumbled little bits of mortar from the rough wall with his thumbs.
“Why what?”
“I don’t know whether I know you well enough to ask the question, Miss Bowring.”