“I see the unknown quantity written clear on both faces. You won’t win.”
Carington stood a moment in gay chat with Rose. Then Lyndsay said:
“You won’t come with us?”
“No; not to-day.” His question was settled without the thermometer. He was clear enough as to the indiscreetness of a useless morning with Rose and two others, and a meeting at Mrs. Maybrook’s in the afternoon. He would abide by the later chance and its less distracting accompaniments.
“We shall look for you both to-morrow,” said Miss Anne Lyndsay. And they poled away up the river, while Rose talked to her father, biding her time to win her little bet.
Anne, lying in her own canoe, and very comfortable, fell into amused reflection. If books were what she dearly loved and closely studied, she had a no less active fancy for that rarer occupation, the serious study of the human face. It is a difficult branch of observation, because one may not too often or too attentively examine the features of those with whom we are in immediate social contact. Like her friend, Dr. North, she preferred on the whole the critical study of women’s faces. She declared that only these repaid attention, and that the hirsute growths of men were, like the jungle, useful for the concealment of animal expressions. She remarked with interest that Carington lacked this partial mask, and said to herself, “That man has something on his mind. Is it about what Archie has been telling him? I shall ask Archie.” Then she went back to her book, which was her favorite “Reisebilder.”
In the other canoe, Rose had brought the talk around several sharp corners, and at last, having no better chance, said:
“You looked worried, Pardy, or so very grave, when you were talking to Mr. Carington. Has he been naughty, papa?”
“No.”
“Well, what was it? You both seemed so intent.”