“That,” breathed Florence, “was awful decent of him.”
“Decent?” Lucile exploded. “It—it was grand. Look here,” she turned almost savagely upon the child, “you didn’t intend to give that book back but you’re going to do it. You’re going to put it in that mail box to-night.”
“Oh, no, I’m not,” the child said cheerfully.
“You—you’re not?” Lucile stammered. “What right have you to keep it?”
“What right has he? It does not belong to him. It belongs to Monsieur Le Bon.”
“Why, that’s nonsense! That—” Lucile broke off suddenly. “Look!” she exclaimed. “The boat’s gone!”
It was all too true. They had reached the beach where they had left the boat. It had vanished.
“So we are prisoners after all,” Florence whispered.
“And, and he was just making fun of us. He knew we couldn’t get away,” breathed Lucile, sinking hopelessly down upon the sand.