“Yes. Come out.”
“Just a minute. What’s my nationality?”
“English, this morning.”
“I thought likely. So I put on the regalia.” The owner of the voice stepped forth in the full panoply of wig, whiskers, and monocle.
Darcy surveyed him disparagingly. “No,” she decided. “I don’t like it as well as I did.”
“Perhaps you prefer the original,” he suggested modestly. “I do, myself. But I was afraid some one might be around.”
“Nobody is likely to be here this morning. And the rig doesn’t fit in with that great box you’re carrying. What’s in it? More disguises?” He uncovered the box and held it out to her.
“Grown on the premises,” he lied gayly. “Picked with the dew still on ’em.”
The girl gathered the blooms into her arms and drew them up to her face with a sudden, tender, mothering gesture which caused the giver’s heart an unaccustomed and disturbing thrill. He was well repaid for the trip to Center Harbor.
“How lovely!” she cried. “And how good of you! What kind are they? For reward you may take off your disguise, but you must hide if the others come.”