“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and Ishall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. MissWilliams—oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick insidethem instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men—likelyyoung men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wantsme to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor olddear!”
“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy, with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with regard to this most delicate financial affair.
“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best—his very best. He has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from Dresden—red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do—they wouldn't do, Dorothy!”
Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her walking-stick.
“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is always—only one—eh, Dorothy?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.
Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer little twist of the lips that made her look older—almost a woman. One could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite old, perhaps.
“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times cleverer than the rest—a million times—well, he was quite different, I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old, so he didn't try——”
She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw herself back on the soft sand.
“So,” she cried gaily.“Vogue la galère. It's all for the best. That is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to pass in with the crowd, and be conventional—if you swing for it.”
She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer now.
“Dorothy, do you see theThree Brothers?”
“That is theThree Brothers,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her walking-stick.
For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One, walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New Scheveningen Road.
“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk—if I saw him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather like theThree Brothersto look at. He has taken your brother safely away, and now he is coming—to take you.”
“He may remember that I am Percy's sister,” suggested Dorothy.
“It doesn't matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply. “Nothing matters”—Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her dress—“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a matter of absolute chance.”
She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish, looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock attitude of benediction.
“Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and walked towards the Villa des Dunes.