"In these days of competition," murmured Hewson, "one sometimes has to pay for the right of the first refusal."
The smile was twitching again. "That right is yours without payment."
"Then I'd better get it over quickly. Sheila—will you marry me?"
"Mr. Hewson—I will not. Where are you going?"
Charles Hewson turned half-way across the lawn. "Up to London. I want to find a man there, and give him the best dinner he's ever had in his life."
"What man?"
"The sportsman who wrote that article about walking tours." It was then the smile broke bounds.
"We've got some topping peaches in the garden. Couldn't you send him some of those as—a payment on account?"
XI — The Poser
No one could call Portsdown-on-Sea a fashionable place. To the chosen few it constituted the most delightful seaside resort in the south of England. But very few did know, and they guarded their secret jealously. They formed a clique—the Portsdown clique—and the stranger within their gates was not welcomed.