His was a cottage of the roughest construction, which he had bought some years before of an old fisherman; and his seat—he could not afford chairs, he said—was a rough block of granite, upon which he was very fond of sunning himself when the weather was fine.
“I’ve a good mind to go and ask Leslie to lend me his glass,” muttered the old man. “No. He’d only begin asking favours of me. But all that ought to be stopped. Wonder whether George knows. What’s Van Heldre about? As for those two girls, I’ll give them such a talking to—the gipsies! There they go, pretending they can’t see that they are followed, and those two scamps making after them, and won’t close up till they’re round the point. Bah! it’s no business of mine! I’m not going to marry.”
Uncle Luke was quite right. Harry Vine and his friend were waiting till the jutting mass of cliff was passed—about a quarter of a mile to the westward, and they overtook the objects of their pursuit just as a consultation was taking place as to whether they should sit down and rest.
“Yes, let’s sit down,” said Madelaine, turning round. “Oh!”
“What is it? sprained your ankle?”
“No. Mr Pradelle and Harry are close by.”
“Let’s walk on quickly then, and go round back by the fields.”
“But it will be six miles.”
“Never mind if it’s sixteen,” said Louise, increasing her pace.
“Hallo, girls,” cried Harry, and they were obliged to face round.