“By sponges,” she said, “I mean——”
“Won’t you sit down?” said Priscilla.
She picked her stockings from the gunwale of the boat, leaving a clear space beside Miss Rutherford.
“Bother!” she said, “the dye out of the purple clocks has run. That’s the worst of purple clocks. I half suspected it would at the time, but Sylvia Courtney insisted on my buying them. She said they looked chic. Would you care for anything to eat, Miss Rutherford?”
“I’m nearly starved. That’s why I came over here. I thought you might have some food.”
“We’ve lots,” said Priscilla. “Frank will give it to you. I’ll just step across and speak to Jimmy Kinsella. I want to hear about the baby.”
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Rutherford, when Priscilla left them, “that your cousin doesn’t believe me about the sponges.”
Frank felt deeply ashamed of Priscilla’s behaviour. The prefect in him reasserted itself now that he was in the presence of a grown-up lady. He felt it necessary to apologise.
“She’s very young,” he said, “and I’m afraid she’s rather foolish. Little girls of that age——”
He intended to say something of a paternal kind, something which would give Miss Rutherford the impression that he had kindly undertaken the care of Priscilla during the day in order to oblige those ordinarily responsible for her. A curious smile, which began to form at the corners of Miss Rutherford’s lips and a sudden twinkling of her eyes, stopped him abruptly.