But
now, for the first time, she was conscious of a disagreeable impression at
the sight of the yacht gleaming there in the sun. It seemed as though it
were there on guard, watching ... waiting ... motionless and silent, like a
sleek cat watching at the mouth of a mousehole. Interminably patient. She
glanced at Forrester, riding quietly at her side, and recalled his battle
with the bay mare. He and the yacht--his yacht. Both so quiet, and both
with such an infinite latent capacity for swift, directed action.
She shivered a little, and was aware of an inward sensation of relief when
the horses at last pulled up at the gate of the Cottage and Billy Brewster
flew out from the stables to take charge of the pony. The sight of the
boy's rubicund, commonplace face gave her a feeling of reassurance, seeming
to restore the normal, everyday atmosphere which the uncomfortable train of
thought evoked by the _Sphinx_ had momentarily dissipated.
"Well, I suppose I shan't see you to-morrow--until the evening?" Brett,
standing by her side, the mare's bridle over his arm, was regarding her
with an oddly mocking expression in his eyes. She almost felt as though he
had been reading her thoughts.
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