Flint quoted to himself. "What is it that comes next? Something about
"'A mile of warm sea-scented beach.'
Must have been curiously like this. Where is Flying Point anyhow? Oh, yes; there's the camp-fire."
"Here comes Flint," cried Brady, as he heard the grating of the prow of the dory on the gravel.
"I should think it was time," grumbled Miss Standish, who had been making great sacrifices to keep the coffee hot. For some inscrutable reason, all the people with whom Flint came in contact felt impelled to do their best for him, let their opinion of him be what it would.
"Well, we thought you must be lost!" called Brady from the height of the rocks. "We have all had supper; but we have kept some for you."
"Thanks," answered Flint, from below, "I am sorry you had the trouble, for I took mine at the tavern before I started."
This was more than the descendant of Miles [Pg 163] Standish could bear. With a bang, she emptied the coffee-pot and knocked out the grounds, as her ancestor had shaken the arrows out of the snake-skin to replace them with bullets. Henceforth, she was implacable; and yet Flint never dreamed that he had given offence. Imperfect sympathies again!
Winifred Anstice, whose misfortune it was to be peculiarly sensitive to disturbances in the atmosphere, jumped up from under the pine where she had been sitting with Brady. "Come," she said, "let's all sit down around the fire. I want Leonard to recite for us. Will you, Leon?"
Flattered, yet embarrassed, the young fisherman rose from his occupation of tying up the baskets, and drew nearer. As he stood in front of the fire, Flint looked at him with a thrill of æsthetic admiration. His red shirt, open at the throat, showed a splendid chest and a neck on which his head was firmly and strongly poised. His hair, curling tightly, revealed the well-shaped outline of the skull, and the profile was classic in its regularity. "And that little fool doesn't know enough to fall in love with him!" thought Flint.