"I am sorry you should think that," was the reply. "I selected each phrase with singular care. Never be misled by the apparent ease of a speaker. The best impromptu is prepared beforehand."
"You dear old humbug," she cried.
Now the quiet deadliness of the scene which followed the reappearance of Enid and herself from their bedroom was manifest to her. Enid, too, was looking from one to the other in eager striving to grasp the essentials of an episode rapidly grouping its details into sequence. Brand knew that if he parried his daughters' questioning they would be on their knees by his side forthwith, and he wished to avoid any further excitement.
"Please attend, both of you," he growled, with mock severity. "I am going to tell you something that will console you."
His voice was drowned by some part of the Atlantic whirling over the lantern.
"This kind of thing does not go on all the time," he continued. "Otherwise we should have five hours of spasmodic conversation. As soon as the tide rises sufficiently to gain an uninterrupted run across the reef we will have at least two hours of comparative quiet. About four o'clock there will be a second edition for an hour or so. I suppose that any suggestion of bed—"
"Will be scouted," exclaimed Enid.
"A nice pair of beauties you will be in the morning," he grumbled artfully.
Not even Constance was proof against this new burthen of woe. She glanced around.
"You say that," she cried, "knowing that the nearest looking-glass is yards away."