The steamer sidled across the black waste of water with a warning screech and much tinkling of bells. The lights on the wharves grew brighter and brighter. Burton tossed his cigarette into the wake and sought his state-room. Virginia Beach and rolling waves and sea-breezes were forgotten. The steamer bumped against the spiling and a voice droned:
“Belle Harbour! All off for Belle Harbour!”
A solitary figure, laden with suit-case and umbrella, strode down the gang-plank.
As Burton turned into King’s Street and walked along under the motionless branches of the arching oaks he caught dim glimpses of white-gowned figures on doorsteps and heard young voices. Once the tinkling of a mandolin floated across the street, and with it the sound of a girl singing softly in the darkness. It was June once more, the month of roses and of love! Burton went on with a new lightness in his heart.
“How things do happen!” exclaimed Mrs. Phillips, leading the way upstairs. “The Colonel got back yesterday, and I was just this minute hunting for pen and paper to write to you! Mr. Burton, that is surely a coincidence!”
“It is indeed, Mrs. Phillips. Er—I presume the Colonel brought his family back with him?”
“Well, now, sir, he hasn’t got much family to bring, but he brought what he had—his niece, Miss Fletcher, you know.”