“I think he’s worse, if there is any choice. A professional at least takes good pictures, such as they are.”
“He is an elderly gentleman, and I am sure—”
“Oh, is he?” cried Miss Sommerton; “then the matter is settled. He shall go. I thought it was some young fop of an amateur photographer.”
“Oh, quite elderly. His hair is grey, or badly tinged at least.”
The frown on Miss Sommerton’s brow cleared away, and she smiled in a manner that was cheering to the heart of her suppliant. He thought it reminded him of the sun breaking through the clouds over the hills beyond the St. Maurice.
“Why, Mr. Mason, how selfishly I’ve been acting, haven’t I? You really must forgive me. It is so funny, too, making you beg for a seat in your own canoe.”
“Oh no, it’s your canoe—that is, after twelve o’clock to-night. That’s when your contract begins.”
“The arrangement does not seem to me quite regular; but, then, this is the Canadian woods, and not Boston. But, I want to make my little proviso. I do not wish to be introduced to this man; he must have no excuse for beginning a conversation with me. I don’t want to talk to-morrow.”
“Heroic resolution,” murmured Mason.
“So, I do not wish to see the gentleman until I go into the canoe. You can be conveniently absent. Mrs. Perrault will take me down there; she speaks no English, and it is not likely he can speak French.”