Pendleton himself delivered them from boredom. He had observed Riever's interest in his daughter and was not without his hopes in that direction too. By and by he rose saying with a self-conscious air:
"... Er ... I have some important letters to get off this afternoon. If you'd be good enough to put me ashore, Riever. You needn't hurry, daughter."
Under other circumstances Pen would have been deeply affronted by his transparent ruse. But as has been said, in this affair she had no conscience. She allowed it to be seen that she had no intention of moving.
Riever made haste to summon the boat. Pendleton went down the ladder in his absurd three seasons' straw hat, bobbing his head and waving his hand airily. Towards the sailors his air of mingled condescension and goodfellowship was delicious.
Pen glanced at Riever through her lashes as he returned to her. The little man held himself stiffly in his blue yachting togs and walked with a suggestion of a strut. The greatest tailor in the world could not endow his meager frame with beauty or grace, but it was not to be denied that his wonderfully made clothes lent him a certain distinction.
He patted the cushions of that wonderful divan that encircled the stern. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable here?"
"Impossible!" drawled Pen.
"A cigarette?"
"Never learned how," she said. "I'll make my first trials in private."
"I'll send you a box."