The anchor splashed overboard, and the young man laid down his oars.
"You take this au grand sérieux, I see, Miss Montfort, like my good cousins themselves. I confess I never can attain their perennial youthfulness, try how I will. I feel a Methuselah, I give you my word I do. Oh! very, very, very!"
"I don't understand you," said Margaret, simply. "We are here to take the time, as the boats pass the line. There is no other object in our being here."
"No other? Alas! poor Claud!" sighed Mr. Belleville. "Now, to me, Miss Montfort, the sailing of toy boats is the smallest possible factor in this afternoon's pleasure. It is not, believe me, the childish sport that I shall remember when I am far away."
"Oh!" said Margaret, vaguely, her eyes on the white boat.
"You do not ask what it is that I shall carry with me across the ocean?" Claud's voice dropped to its favorite smooth half-tone, what he was fond of describing to his friends as "ma mi-voix caressante."
"There is a glamour, Miss Montfort, a magic, that does not always put itself into words. The perfect day, the perfect vision, will dwell with me—"
"Oh, look!" cried Margaret, starting forward, eagerly, "they are giving the signal. Gerald repeats it. Oh, they are off! Look, look, Mr. Belleville! What a pretty sight."
It was, indeed, a pretty sight. The fairy fleet started in line, their white and brown sails taking the breeze gallantly, their prows (where they had prows) dancing over the dancing ripples. One or two proved unruly, turning round and round, and in one case finally turning bottom side up, with hardly a struggle. But most of the little vessels kept fairly well within the course, heading, more or less, for the shore.
Margaret was enchanted.