“It’s too amazing you should have come by chance,” said Marcus.
Hastings did not see why he should say he had gone to Mr. Maitland’s house in London, and asked his address, because it was such an easy thing to guess—Mr. Maitland should have guessed it. Lady Carston naturally had not known the Scotch address, but she had given him the London one. Neither did he feel bound to say that Sir Eustace had shown no anxiety to give him even the London one. He had wondered at it; now he was beginning to understand, for no father possessed of a daughter like Diana would wish to encourage any man.
Miles Hastings did not suppose, of course, for one moment, that Sir Eustace had thought him rather more dangerous than most young men, and was seeking to protect Diana against his fascination. Nor could he have dared to imagine that Lady Carston would have let the child take her chance, believing it might be a happy chance. He was happy enough as it was.
The following day he was happier still. He and Diana were fishing on the loch. Away in the distance, a speck on the face of the waters, were Watkins and Pease in their boat, fishing too.
To be quite accurate, in Diana’s boat, John, gillie, was fishing, while Donald, gillie, kept the boat drifting: and it must drift until Miles Hastings, in the bow, had told Diana, likewise in the bow, all there was to tell of that far-off island, from which he had come—to see her.
He had said everything any girl would wish to hear said of her father. He had said nearly all he had to say about her mother. He was now deep in tropical undergrowth and vegetation. It was wonderful the number of plants he remembered in their infinite variety—tree ferns—trees, ferns, and flowers. Diana listened—she had never before found ferns interesting.
Marcus waved from his boat, but no one saw him. So he went home and sent Elsie two brace of grouse. It was a message he wanted to send more than the grouse and he dipped his pen in vinegar and wrote, “Diana is very happy surrounded with admirers.”
Elsie ate the grouse, sharing them with others, dipped her pen in gall, and wrote back: “Of course she is. She always is, but this surely is the one—what do you think?”
What did Marcus think? A thousand things, miserable things—jealous things, unreasoning things, and, above all, he thought: “How did she know? Had Diana confided in her and not in him?”
He took Elsie’s letter out on to the river’s side to read again, to make certain of what lay behind her words.