“Twenty minutes past eight,” she said, tipping her head to read the time. And afterward she read the inscription in her sweet husky voice:
“Turn, Flemynge, spin agayne;
The crossit line’s the kenter skein.
“One of my first recollections,” said Gabrielle, “is being down here with Uncle Roger and Sylvia—I must have been about six, for it was just before he died. He set us both up on the sundial, and told us it was older than the Stars and Stripes, that it had come from England for his grandfather, and what it meant. It meant that the Flemings were always bringing home wives from overseas and crossing the line. I remember it,” she added, as they strolled back toward the house, “because I said—looking out to sea—‘Will Tom have a wife when he comes home?’ and that pleased Uncle Roger, as anything did, I suppose,” Gabrielle ended, sighing, “that made Tom’s coming back at all seem likely!”
“Poor Tom! It would have been a nice inheritance,” David mused. “It has increased, even since Uncle Roger’s time, you know.”
“Is Sylvia apt to make her home here, David?” Gabrielle asked. “She sounds rather worldly—that’s a great convent word! But tell me, what is she like?”
“She is very beautiful, extremely clever, enormously admired,” David answered, with a little flush. “She has the white Fleming skin, high colour, shining black hair.”
“A girl off a handkerchief box?” Gabrielle suggested.
“Exactly.”
“And are there admirers?”