"We will introduce you, even at this distance," said Constance airily. "Mr. Pyne—this is Lieutenant John Percival Stanhope, only son of the late Sir Charles and Lady Margaret Stanhope, of Tregarthen Lodge, Penzance, one of the best and dearest fellows who ever lived."
"It must be nice to be a friend of yours, Miss Brand, if you always talk about the favored person in that way," said Pyne, rubbing industriously.
Enid, to whom the mere sight of the steamer had restored all her vitality, giggled joyously.
"You know, Mr. Pyne, we all love Jack, as the song says. It was a mere accident that he did not accompany us to the rock yesterday. Connie would not let him come."
"Ah," said Pyne.
"I forbade him," explained Constance, "because he has only three days' leave from his ship, and I thought he should give the first afternoon to his mother instead of playing poodle for Enid."
"How dare you call Jack a poodle?" was the indignant exclamation.
"Allow me," drawled Pyne. "I'm very glad your sister classified him."
Constance suddenly felt her neck and face aflame. Pyne was standing on her left, Enid on her right. The quiet jubilation of Pyne's voice was so unmistakable that Enid, for one instant, withdrew her eyes from the distant ship. A retort was quick on her lips, until she bethought her that the American's statement might have two meanings.
Being tactful withal, she chose her words whilst she bubbled forth: