Sir William Browne’s excursion had proved so attractive to those invited that the White Heather was taken farther along the coast than was originally intended. When all the best known resorts of the Riviera itself were exploited, some one, probably prompted thereto by Phyllis or Mensmore, suggested a run to Genoa.
They had been in the port three days, and on the morrow would hand the yacht over to the owner’s agents, those on board separating on their different routes. The Brownes went to Florence and Rome, and Mensmore was pretending to hold out against a pressing request to accompany them, cordially given by his prospective father-in-law.
This afternoon Phyllis and he were leaning over the taffrail and discussing the point.
The young lady was slightly inclined to be angry. Her eyes roamed over the magnificent panorama of church-crowned hills and verdant valleys, with the white city in front and the picturesque quays looking as though they had been specially decked for a painting by Clara Montalba. But Phyllis paid heed to none of these things. She wanted her lover to come with her, and not to fly away to smoke-covered London.
“Business!” she cried, “it is always business that men think of. Of course I know that affairs must be attended to, but now that everything is settled and we are quite happy, it is too bad of you to run away immediately.”
“But, dearest—”
“There! Take your hand off my arm. You are not going to coax me into agreement. Just because you receive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all the arrangements.”
“Phyllis, listen to me. I—”
“You shan’t go. I think it is mean of you to insist upon it when I am so urgent.”
“I am not insisting. You might at least help me to settle matters; otherwise they will get terribly mixed.”