"Of course, you must go then," said Meriel.
Guy responded to the regretful note in the girl's voice.
"You will be sorry to lose me?" he asked eagerly.
The ghost of a blush fluttered for a moment on her cheeks.
"We shall all be very sorry," she answered equivocally. Guy was about to press the personal question home, but the sails shivered. Meriel glanced upward. "Give me the tiller," she said. "You are steering awfully badly this morning. Why, you've let the Witch run right up into the wind."
Guy laughed as he vacated his post at the helm. For the moment he was satisfied. He had seen an answer in Meriel's eyes to his unspoken question which set his mind at rest. Before the day was out that question should be answered, but the time was not yet.
The Witch flew along, bending over to the breeze. The river widened and the banks fell away. The cutter begun to curtsey to the waves, and now and again a spatter of spray was tossed high in the air. Guy took the tiller again and Meriel unpacked the luncheon basket. With appetites sharpened by the breeze they picnicked on deck. They still pressed onward until the houses on the white cliff before them begun to be plainly visible. Meriel looked at her watch.
"We are very near Clacton, and it is two o'clock," she remarked. "Isn't it time we thought about returning?" she added regretfully.
The summer breeze began to show a disposition to change, veering to the east. Guy put the helm down and went about. The wind veered still more, though it still held. Guy gave the mainsail more sheet, and the Witch ran merrily before the breeze over the slackening tide. An hour passed and the wind became perceptibly lighter. The afternoon sun shone down from a cloudless sky, while a purple heat haze gathered on the horizon.
"Luckily we turned back when we did," said Meriel. "We shall hardly get home on the tide even now. Hadn't we better set the spinnaker?"