“What shall we do?” asked Juliet, allowing him to draw her into his favourite settle corner.
“Go fishing. If you’ll put up a jolly little—I mean a jolly big—lunch, and array yourself in unspoilable attire, I’ll give you a day’s great sport, whether we catch any fish or not. There’s one fish you’re sure of—he’s always on the end of your line: hooked fast, and resigned to his fate. Juliet, are they really all gone?”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Good Mary McKaim—peace be to her ashes, for she never gets any on the toast—has she gone, too?”
“She’s packing.”
“Rachel safe at home with her presumable fiancé?”
“He can’t be her fiancé, Tony—”
“That’s what Lockwood said—but I suppose he can, just the same. Rachel away, do you say?”
“Yes. She didn’t come over to-day at all, you know.”
“I noticed it—by the gloom on three stalwart men’s faces. Well, if everybody’s safely out of the way I’m going to commit myself.”