They were cutting sandwiches and endeavoring to read their letters at the same instant. He bowed with sarcastic politeness.
"I see you are ready for the party," he said.
Certainly he offered a deplorable contrast to them. His face was encrusted with salt and blackened with dirt and perspiration. His hands were like those of a sweep, but smeared with oil, which shone on his coat sleeves up to both elbows. His clothes were torn and soiled, his linen collar and cuffs limp as rags, and his waistcoat was ripped open, having remained in that condition since it caught in a block as he descended the mast.
"Oh, you poor fellow!" cried Constance. "How you must envy us. Here is a kettleful of hot water. I can't say much for the towel, but the soap is excellent."
Refreshed, Pyne opened his uncle's letter. The girls were keeping up a running commentary of gossip.
"Mousie (Mrs. Sheppard) says she hasn't slept for three nights."
"Edith Taylor-Smith says she envies us."
"That letter you are reading now is from Lady Margaret. What does she say?"
"She sends all sorts of love, and—that kind of thing," cried the blushing Enid, who had just learnt from Jack's mother that Stanhope had appropriated her as his intended wife without ever a proposal.
"Is that all—in four closely written pages?"