“Well, once on a time, when folks wore beaver hats, an ancient beaver sat on a dam, and discoursed wisdom to a young beaver. Presently came floating down-stream a beaver hat. ‘What is that?’ cried the young beaver. Then the old beaver wiped his eyes with his long, hairy tail, and said, ‘My son, that is our grandfather!’”
“Delightful! Do tell the boys that.”
“Tom considered this incident in silence until at last I said, ‘Tom, I don’t suppose you believe that story?’ ‘Well, now,’ says Tom, ‘that just shows you don’t know nothin’ about beavers. In course he knowed his own granddaddy.’”
“That is really charming.”
“Oh, here is the pool.” Their places were now shifted, Carington casting over Miss Lyndsay. For an hour he fished in a distracted way, to Michelle’s disgust, for the fisherman sat for the most part, and paid less attention to the fly than to the back of Miss Lyndsay’s neck, and a pair of delicately modeled ears, and the most distracting lot of hair, which had been disturbed in her casting, and in and out of which two hands were busy with mysteriously guided efforts at readjustment. Also, he wondered how much of a woman’s nature one could learn from these limited opportunities.
After a good deal of talk, with some dangerous intervals of silence, he gave up fishing, saying, “It is no use,” and ordered the anchor up. It was now toward evening, and they were off and away to meet Mr. Lyndsay at the beach.
“Don’t paddle,” said Carington. “Keep her straight; that is all.”
He was more than willing to lengthen the time of their too brief voyage. Both seemed inclined to the lonely satisfaction of silent thought.
As they neared the Island beach, Rose said, “I have had so delightful an afternoon that I almost forgot mama’s message. I was to ask you to come down to-morrow—no, Monday—night, after dinner, and Mr. Ellett, of course. We will try to show you what silly folk we can be. We are guilty of much folly, I assure you. We will play ‘Situations’—we call it 'Plots.’”
“What is that?”