He finished dressing in silence and went ashore, and after looking about him in a perfunctory fashion, strolled off in the direction of Gravesend. The one gleam of light in his present condition was the regular habits of schools, and as he went along he blessed the strong sense of punctuality which possessed the teaching body at four o’clock.
To-day, however, his congratulations were somewhat premature, for long after the children had come and gone there was no sign of Annis Gething. He walked up and down the road wondering. Half-past four, five. He waited until six o’clock—an object of much interest to sundry ladies who were eyeing him stealthily from their front parlor windows—and was just going at a quarter-past when he saw her coming towards him.
“Back again,” she said as she shook hands.
“Just back,” said he.
“No news of my father, I suppose?” said Annis. “None, I’m sorry to say,” said the skipper. “You’re late to-night, aren’t you?”
“Rather.”
“You look tired,” said the skipper with tenderness.
“Well, I’m not,” said Annis. “I just stayed and had a cup of tea with Miss Grattan. Mother has gone out, so I didn’t hurry.”
“Out now?” inquired he.
Miss Gething nodded brightly, and having by this time reached the corner of a road, came to a stop.