She settled upon a straw chair—like a white butterfly. The others walked on towards the end of the terrace, but the young man whom she called Brook stood beside her, slowly lighting a cigarette, not five paces from Mrs. Bowring and Clare.
“I’m sure I don’t know where your fan is,” he said, with a short laugh, as he threw the end of the match over the wall.
“Well then, look for it!” she answered, rather sharply. “I’m awfully hot, and I want it.”
He glanced at her before he spoke again.
“I don’t know where it is,” he said quietly, but there was a shade of annoyance in his face.
“I gave it to you just as we were getting into the boat,” answered the lady in white. “Do you mean to say that you left it on board?”
“I think you must be mistaken,” said the young man. “You must have given it to somebody else.”
“It isn’t likely that I should mistake you for any one else—especially to-day.”
“Well—I haven’t got it. I’ll get you one in the hotel, if you’ll have patience for a moment.”