“You know Dinan?”
“There are very few places within easy reach of a yachtsman that I don’t know. I have anchored in almost every bay between Cherbourg and Brest, and have rambled inland whenever there was anything worth seeing within a day’s journey from the coast. Yes, I know Dinan well. Strange to think that I may have passed you in the street there. Do you sketch, by the way?”
“A little.”
“Ah, then, perhaps you are one of the young ladies I have seen sitting at street corners, or under archways, doing fearful and wonderful things with a box of moist colours and a drawing-board.”
“The young ladies who sit about the streets are tourists,” said Isola, with a look of disgust.
“I understand. The resident ladies would no more do such things than they would sit upon the pavement and make pictures of salmon or men-of-war in coloured chalks, like our Metropolitan artists.”
“I think I hear a carriage,” said Isola, putting down her cup and saucer, and looking at her jacket, which Mrs. Mayne was holding before the fire.
“Yes, that is the carriage,” answered Lostwithiel, opening the glass door. “What a night! The rain is just as bad as it was when I brought you indoors.”
“If you will accept the use of a shawl, ma’am, it would be safer than putting on this damp jacket.”