The orderly took a hasty glance back over his shoulder. “She has her launch lowered already, sir,” he said.
Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued undisturbed. Sir Charles reached for his marine-glass, and the three men hurried to the veranda.
“It looks like a man-of-war,” said Sir Charles. “No,” he added, adjusting the binocular; “she’s a yacht. She flies the New York Yacht Club pennant—now she’s showing the owner’s absent pennant. He must have left in the launch. He’s coming ashore now.”
“He seems in a bit of a hurry,” growled Mr. Clarges.
“Those Americans always—” murmured Sir Charles from behind the binocular. He did not quite know that he enjoyed this sudden onslaught upon the privacy of his harbor and port.
It was in itself annoying, and he was further annoyed to find that it could in the least degree disturb his poise.
The launch was growing instantly larger, like an express train approaching a station at full speed; her flags flew out as flat as pieces of painted tin; her bits of brass-work flashed like fire. Already the ends of the wharves were white with groups of natives.
“You might think he was going to ram the town,” suggested the secretary.
“Oh, I say,” he exclaimed, in remonstrance, “he’s making in for your private wharf.”
The Governor was rearranging the focus of the glass with nervous fingers. “I believe,” he said, “no—yes—upon my word, there are—there are ladies in that launch!”