“Father is out,” she said, as she motioned him to an easy-chair, “but I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you when he comes in.”
“And I shall be pleased to see him,” said the innocent skipper.
Miss Pilbeam kept her doubts to herself and sat in a brown study, wondering how the capture was to be effected. She had a strong presentiment that the appearance of her father at the front door would be the signal for her visitor's departure at the back. For a time there was an awkward silence.
“Lucky thing for me I upset that policeman,” said the skipper, at last.
“Why?” inquired the girl.
“Else I shouldn't have come into your yard,” was the reply. “It's the first time we have ever put into Woodhatch, and I might have sailed away and never seen you. Where should we have been but for that fat policeman?”
Miss Pilbeam—as soon as she could get her breath—said, “Ah, where indeed!” and for the first time in her life began to feel the need of a chaperon.
“Funny to think of him hunting for me high and low while I am sitting here,” said the skipper.
Miss Pilbeam agreed with him, and began to laugh—to laugh so heartily that he was fain at last to draw his chair close to hers and pat her somewhat anxiously on the back. The treatment sobered her at once, and she drew apart and eyed him coldly.
“I was afraid you would lose your breath,” explained the skipper, awkwardly. “You are not angry, are you?”