“I’ll place the consideration of the v-in-the-middle before my venerable parent this very night,” laughed Sebastian. And: “I love you!” he whispered, into the sun-warmed web of her hair. “Letty, you’re adorable; I love you!” seeking by these means to stifle within him a certain sense of disloyalty; which increased, when, on the morning after, she deplored almost tearfully the break-up of the fine weather: “It’s our weather, Sebastian; the weather you told me you loved me in; and it’s got no right to finish so quickly, before you’ve finished telling me.”—But Sebastian was glad of the tempestuous change.... “Care to join me next time the wind’s foul enough?”... He and Stuart set sail together that very afternoon.
They were away for three days. Sebastian had anticipated much stimulating discussion while sailing; his host holding forth, one hand idly resting upon the tiller; himself, the passenger, listening, stretched full length in the lazy sunlight, his pipe in his mouth, the waves lapping gentle accompaniment against the bows of the boat. But Stuart talked very little upon the voyage, and that mostly in curt vigorous language concerning canvas and harbours, and the evil behaviours of the same. He was quite a different being to the eccentric metaphysician of the Haven. Also, though he treated his guest with excellent politeness for the first few hours of companionship, he accepted heartily the boy’s embarrassed offer to “be of assistance” in the management of the boat; and thenceforward plunged him into an existence resembling equally a monkey’s and a cabin-boy’s; involving much perilous swarming, and unknotting, and a process known as ‘reefing’; much battling with drenched ropes and stubborn tiller against obstinate and treacherous winds. A persistently clouded sky overhead; very little to eat, and that uneatable; hard salt breathless days; evenings spent in small water-side inns; Heron exchanging bewildering technicalities with others just arrived in port. Then an uncomfortable lumpy bed, smelling inexplicably of seaweed, and offering but little rest to a stiff and aching body;—“Glad to turn in, eh, Levi?”—decidedly Sebastian was disappointed of the long intimate conversations, explaining riddles which had haunted him ever since his first fantastic meeting with Stuart Heron.
He brought back with him to Bournemouth a great astonishment at being yet alive, hope which he had forfeited many times in each single hour. Also, acute memory of an instant when presence of mind had prompted him to haul at the right sheet in an emergency, and Stuart had favoured him with a sudden curly smile, peculiarly his own, and a brief word of approval. And now Sebastian underwent sensations of weary flatness and depression, inhabiting once more the luxurious suite of rooms engaged by his father at the Boscombe Hotel. He debated all the while what thing he could do to win again that quick smile from Stuart. He wanted that man’s approval—more than aught else he wanted it—would force it somehow, no matter by what extravagance of action. He believed Stuart despised him, and the thought cut like rain-rods in a north-easterly. “If he doesn’t despise me, then why won’t he tell me more about his—his ideas?”
But on no subsequent visit to the Haven, was Stuart to be drawn. “My creed is the wrong sort for an engaged young man; better leave it alone. By the way, you promised that I should see your fiancée.”
“You’ll see her to-morrow, if you’re anywhere about. The whole Menagerie are swarming over in the excursion bus, to view this interesting spot. Letty and her mother and father will be with them. No, not me, thanks; I couldn’t stand three solid hours of the Earwig and the Cabbage-rose.” Sitting on the window-sill of the bungalow, mournfully jabbing tobacco into his pipe, he favoured Stuart with a vivid account of the ‘Menagerie,’ as he chose to term the boarding-house wherein his beloved dwelt.
“It’s a ramshackle building stuck among pine-trees, a mile or two out of Bournemouth; and the proprietress—landlady—hostess—whatever you call her, has no more idea than Adam of management. She advertised in the papers, by way of an original start: ‘Charming home-like residence for the summer months; croquet, tennis, and private bathing-hut; terms moderate; run on Bohemian lines!’ That last statement fetched the victims. Such a crew!”
“Which of your prospective family-in-law was attracted by the Bohemian lines?” queried Stuart, enjoying the recital.
It transpired that Mrs. Johnson had caught sight of the advertisement, and had remarked to her husband, one breakfast time, “Matthew, we are getting into a Groove. What we want, what Letty wants, is Bohemian society. The best Bohemians, naturally. Here’s our chance. I’ve heard they take liqueur in their morning tea, instead of milk and sugar, like Christians!” Mr. Johnson had here stated firmly that nothing would induce him to do that; and Letty had further propounded: “whether they’ll like the sort of people we are?” And her father had replied with his favourite remark: “We’re as good as other folks, my girl, if we like to consider other folks as good as us. And that’s logic!”
“So they all came; except the young brother, Luke, who went off on his own,” finished Sebastian, somewhat sulkily. He resented being made to talk, when he so itched to hear what the other had to say. And he believed Stuart was being purposely provoking and reticent.