Antony opened all the windows.
'How that man,' he said to himself, 'can be the father of that sweet lady little Lotty is past all comprehension. However, the caravan is mine now.—Yes, Mrs Pendlebury, come up and do the rooms. I'll walk by the shore for half an hour.'
The tide was running in upon the yellow sand, each tiny wavelet wetting it higher and higher up the beach, its long wavy line showing the tide was beginning to flow. Scarce a whisper from the sea to-day, and its oily reflection almost pained the eyes that received it. Out yonder on this glassy mirror a little boat was bobbing, but so indistinctly that Antony could not at first tell whether it was on the horizon or nearer hand. Presently, however, he could see an arm raised and something flutter. A cry, too, or 'coo-ee!' came across the water, plaintive almost as that of a sea-bird.
Antony waved his handkerchief in return, and almost immediately noticed that the boat had changed its direction, and was putting back towards a point of dark rocks that stood out into the sea about three hundred yards to the west. Thither he bent his steps, the little craft appearing suddenly to get very much larger and more distinct, and he could see now that the single figure who sat therein was Lotty herself.
Next moment he was out on the point-end, the dingy's bows rasping on the black, weed-covered boulder on which he was standing.
'Good-morning, dear. How well you row! Can I assist you up?'
'Oh no, Mr Blake, I am not landing yet. I have had breakfast ever so long ago; and, look, I have caught all these fish! Mind you don't step on them.'
'Am I to come on board, then, and take the oars?'
'You may come on board, but not take the oars. You are just to sit in the stern-sheets and be good.'
'Be good?'