“My dear,” said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which Flora stood, “can that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?”
Flora’s bosom heaved, and her colour vanished.
“I think it is—stay—no—it looks like—yes, it is he,” said Mrs Westwood.
Flora’s face and neck became scarlet.
Presently the plash of oars were heard near the vessel, and next moment a boat approached, but not from such a quarter as to be visible from the port-hole.
“Mind your starboard oar,” said a deep voice, which caused Flora’s heart to beat against her chest, as if that dear little receptacle of good thoughts and warm feelings were too small to contain it, and it wanted to get out.
“Good morning, Mr Osten,” cried Mr Westwood, looking down.
“Good morning, sir,—good morning, Mrs Westwood,” answered Will, looking up.
“It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come off to bid us good-bye,” said Mr Westwood.
Flora trembled a little, and leaned upon the side of the berth.