The men paid, and left to make the boat water-tight, Wareham walked slowly up the short incline towards the inn. He lingered, from an irritable disinclination to see Anne and Hugh together again; but before he reached the door, Hugh came out to meet him like a bolt. He seized Wareham’s hand and wrung it.
“My dear old fellow,” he cried exultingly, “was ever anything in the world so amazingly lucky! I might have knocked about the country for a week without tumbling up against them, and of all the blessed moments for a man to arrive, just when she was a bit sore at their want of care!”
As Hugh paused to contemplate his good fortune, Wareham thrust in a question.
“What on earth made you go in for such a”—he would have liked to have said “preposterous,” but left it out—“hurricane dash across the seas?”
“What else would you have expected when I had your telegram? Wasn’t I just wild to get word with her again? And saw no chance of it. Look here, what food there is, is waiting for you in there. Come and eat. I’ve got to talk to some one about it all, and I’m not so unreasonable as to harangue a hungry man.”
“More sleepy than hungry.”
“Well, you must eat before you turn in.”
“Has Miss Dalrymple had some food?” Hugh laughed joyously.
“Do you suppose I didn’t see that she had all she wanted? It’s gone up to her room, of course. She’s got to pay that tribute to Mrs Grundy. Here you are; now what’ll you have? Here’s the landlord himself. Beer, sausage, kippered salmon, marmalade, coffee?”
Wareham made a selection; Hugh rattled on, helping himself meanwhile.