Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her walking-stick.
“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is always—only one—eh, Dorothy?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.
Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer little twist of the lips that made her look older—almost a woman. One could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite old, perhaps.
“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times cleverer than the rest—a million times—well, he was quite different, I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old, so he didn't try——”
She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw herself back on the soft sand.
“So,” she cried gaily. “Vogue la galère. It's all for the best. That is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to pass in with the crowd, and be conventional—if you swing for it.”
She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer now.
“Dorothy, do you see the Three Brothers?”
“That is the Three Brothers,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her walking-stick.