“Don’t trouble yourself to say it. You thought I wasn’t much better than my sister. I could see you did. Very well; perhaps I am not, but I don’t go dancing my lunacy in everybody’s face. Ah, it’s a queer world, Leslie.”
“No, sir; it is the people who are queer.”
“Humph! That’s not bad for you, Leslie. Yes; you are about right. It is the people who are queer. I’m a queer one, so my folks think, because I sent my plate to the bank, had my furniture in a big town house sold, and came to live down here. My sister says, to disgrace them all. There, I’m better now. Want to speak to me?”
“N-no, nothing very particular, Mr Vine.”
Uncle Luke tightened his lips, and stared fiercely out to sea.
“Even he can’t tell the truth,” he said. “Stupid fellow! Just as if I couldn’t read him through and through.”
The meeting was assuming an unpleasant form when there was a diversion, Poll Perrow coming slowly up, basket on back, examining each face keenly with her sharp, dark eyes.
“Morning, Master Leslie,” she said in her sing-song tone. “Nice morning, my son. Morning, Master Luke Vine, sir. Got any fish for me to-day?”
Leslie nodded impatiently; Uncle Luke did not turn his head.
“I said to myself,” continued the old woman, “Master Luke Vine saw that shoal of bass off the point this morning, and he’ll be sure to have a heavy basket for me of what he don’t want. Dessay I can sell you one, Mr Leslie, sir.”