“Dogs ought to mind their own business,” said Nina, with such a determined set of her rosy chin that Miss Marsden bit her lip to keep from open laughter.
“If I were a lamb,” she said, presently, and with her usual calm and superior air, “a mischievously disposed lamb, and had a good dog that was interested in me, and tried to keep me away from the companionship of briers, I should endeavour to reciprocate. I should propitiate the dog lest he should get discouraged. Even good dogs will bite.”
Nina had apparently lost interest in the argument, and had gone to sleep. Her white lids were drooping wearily over her eyes. Her head was on her shoulder, and casting a sharp glance at her, Miss Marsden followed her example. When she was really asleep, soundly and unmistakably so, with her black head safely hidden from the scrutiny of passers-by under the shade of her red parasol, Nina glided from her chair and went stealthily away.
There was something on her mind that she must get rid of. Disagreeable as the duty was, she would not feel justified in escaping its performance. Up the bridge ladder and into the chart-room she hastened. There she hesitated an instant. Her eyes, dazzled by the glare of the sun, could perceive not one thing in the interior of the little cool, dark room.
Presently she made out the table and a chair before it. She stumbled into the latter, and, blindly reaching out her hand, seized a pen and piece of paper, and began to write, “Dear Captain Fordyce.”
No, that would not do. It was too stiff, and, scratching out the “Captain Fordyce,” she put “My dear Esteban.” Now—how should she begin? “Though circumstances were apparently very much against me—”
That was too stilted. She drew her pen through the carefully written words, and began again: “Will you allow me to explain to you a circumstance—”
Always that word “circumstance.” It turned up like a bad penny. “I don’t believe it was a circumstance at all,” she said, aloud, and with a vexed exclamation she dashed a heavy black line down the page, and, seizing a fresh piece of paper, wrote:
“Dear ’Steban:—I wasn’t flirting with that young man. I detested him from the beginning.