“We are going up to the beach, father. Rose lost a pin there. May we take lunch, mama? There is plenty of brass knocker from breakfast.”
“Pardon me,” said Carington, “my dear fellow; but what on earth is ‘brass knocker’?”
Lyndsay laughed. “That is a family bit of my Scotch education. The lowland Scotchman calls the relics of a meal the ‘brass knocker,’ because once, I suppose, the poor relations, who came to get the remains of a feast, were expected to knock, and not to ring.”
“How curious. Yes, thank you, I will smoke. Mrs. Lyndsay?”
“Oh, my women are angelic about that!”
“Indeed, if we were fallen angels,” said Anne, “we could hardly be more used to it.” Then she said, “I hope we may see you and Mr. Ellett often. I must go and tell Rose what a pleasant chat we have had.”
As she turned, she swayed a little, so as to touch Mr. Carington. “Pardon me,” she said, “I am not over-strong, and it now and then makes me awkward.” She was really in extreme pain. “Good-by.”
He stepped aside to let her pass, struck, as she moved away, with her pallor. It was a sign of unusual liking in this woman when she permitted herself the least allusion to her own feebleness.
Carington was in the gayest of moods as their canoe went up the river.
“He has very good cigars,” remarked Ellett.