Archibald Lyndsay’s uneasiness had been extreme from the time Anne had spoken of Carington. Now he was in the canoe with his wife, and was being poled up-stream by the two Indians, who could understand but little of the rapid speech of the white man, and before whom, therefore, he could talk at ease. Lyndsay sat with his back to the bowman, his wife facing him and lying against a pile of cushions. After a little he said, speaking low:
“Margaret, has it occurred to you that possibly all this unavoidable intimacy between Rose and young Carington might—well, might result in some serious attachment, and—”
“Of course,” she broke in, with the wife’s privilege of apprehending more than the husband has said, “of course, any one—”
“My dear Margaret, I wish you would listen until I have finished—”
“Very well, dear, I will listen. I only meant to remind you that I have already spoken of this, and that you said it was not of any moment; and that I was too much given to anticipating trouble. The fact is, Archie, when you are on your holiday, you hate to have anything serious brought to your mind, and you are pretty apt just to put it aside.”
Lyndsay, well versed in the fine art of matrimonial diplomacy, made no instant reply to this arraignment.
“Perhaps, my good wife, we may be as to this a little alike. When you are very full of a subject, or have decided it in your own mind, you are inclined not to hear me out.”
“That may be so. I beg pardon, Archie. What is it?”
“What was I saying? Where was I? It is like taking the marker out of a book you are reading.”
“You were saying it might result in a serious attachment.”