Afternoon: on the Sands.—Louise and Alf have been scooping a pit. When it is dug, she says coquettishly that there is just room for me. I decline, a little curtly perhaps—but I really am surprised at Louise—such extremely bad style! Her Aunt, who is eating plums hard-by, says "some people seem to think themselves too grand for anything." I can hear Alf whispering that Louise would not have to ask "poor old Ponk" twice.
Louise says, pouting, that she shall not ask me again. I can see I have hurt her feelings. After all, it is possible to be too particular—there is no harm in it—countless couples around us are making themselves at least equally conspicuous. Somehow I never can be as firm with Louise as I am with most people.... I ought to be comfortable, with her head resting upon my shoulder and my arm encircling her waist (she insists on this)—but, as a matter of fact, I catch myself remarking how very much Louise has caught the sun of late. And she has developed quite a twang within the last few days!
Coming with a Rush!
Ponking has just come up; he has arranged with a photographer to take us all, just as we are, in a group. As Ponking and Alf consider it humorous to be taken in the act of making horrible grimaces, we promptly become objects of general interest. I should not like to be seen by any of the fellows at the office just now.
We are all posed—and a nice picture we shall make!—when, on the outskirts of the crowd, I see a slender stately figure, which does not seem quite to belong to Starmouth.
There is actually a sort of resemblance—but that is absurd! She notices the crowd, and as she pauses with a half-indifferent curiosity, I see her full face.... It is almost too terrible to be true—but I am under no delusion,—it is Ethel Dering!
"Quite steady all, for one moment, please," says the photographer. If I could only bury my head in the sand like an ostrich,—but that would excite remark, I suppose, and, besides, there is no time!