Lavinia recounted her negligence in having left it at the shoe-mart. Captain Fennel had brought out a small silk umbrella; he turned from the end of the pier, where he stood looking out to sea, opened the umbrella, and offered it.
“It is not much larger than a good-sized parasol,” remarked he. “Pray take it, Miss Lavinia.”
Lavinia did so after a moment’s imperceptible hesitation, and thanked him. She hated to be under the slightest obligation to him, but the sun was now full in her eyes, and might make her head ache.
The pleasant smell of a cigar caused them to look up. A youngish man, rather remarkably tall, with a shepherd’s plaid across his broad shoulders, was striding up the pier. He sat down near Miss Preen, and she glanced round at him. Appearing to think that she looked at his cigar, he immediately threw it into the sea behind him.
“Oh, I am sorry you did that,” said Lavinia, speaking impulsively. “I like the smell of a cigar.”
“Oh, thank you; thank you very much,” he answered. “I had nearly smoked it out.”
Voice and manner were alike pleasant and easy, and Lavinia spoke again—some trivial remark about the fine expanse of sea; upon which they drifted into conversation. We are reserved enough with strangers at home, we Islanders, as the world knows, but most of us are less ungracious abroad.
“Sainteville seems a clean, healthy place,” remarked the new-comer.
“Very,” said Miss Lavinia. “Do you know it well?”
“I never saw it before to-day,” he replied. “I have come here from Douai to meet a friend, having two or three days to spare.”