The window was wide open. The returning tide was coming in with a pleasant ripple and wash over the shingle. The Parade was nearly empty; but some children’s voices sounded from the green space before the houses. The brown sail of a fishing craft dipped into the horizon. It was so cool, so quiet, so restful; but Nan’s eyes were weary, and she put the question wistfully.
Phillis looked into the teapot to gain a moment’s reprieve; the corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them.
“I never said it was not hard,” she burst out at last. “I felt like a fool myself while I was speaking to Miss Milner; but then that clergyman was peeping at us between the folds of his paper. He seemed a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of man. Do you think that queer little lady in the plaid dress could be his wife? Oh, no; I remember Miss Milner addressed her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his sister: how odd!”
“Why should it be odd?” remarked Nan, absently, who had not particularly noticed them.
“Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice-looking, and he was quite handsome, and looked rather distinguished. You know I always take stock of people, and make up my mind about them at once. And then we are to be such close neighbors.”
“I don’t suppose we shall see much of them,” was Nan’s somewhat depressed reply; and then, as they had finished their tea they placed themselves at the open window, and began to talk about the business of next day; and, in discussing cupboards and new papers, Nan forgot her fatigue, and grew so interested that it was quite late before they thought of retiring to rest.